


A Kiss of Fire

by LadyKakata



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boat Sex, Boat!Baby, Drogon is Best Son, Egg Laying, Emetophobia, Everything's All About Money, F/M, FREQUENTLY UPDATED, Gen, I Love You All, Jingle Bells Cersei Smells DANY LAID AN EGG, Mommy!Daenerys, Original Character(s), Pregnancy, Prepare for weirdness later, This isn't a serious work, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2020-06-06 18:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 51,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKakata/pseuds/LadyKakata
Summary: What does one do when one's story dies before their time? What does a devoted son do when his mother falls at the hands of the one she loves? He takes her back to where she began, and he breathes the life into her that she breathed into him ...A vent-fic to try and let go of some feels of S8's ending. This fic will be pro-Daenerys, pro-Jonaerys, anti-S8 Sansa (sorry Sansa, but S8 really did make you horrible), anti-S8 in general.





	1. A Nest in Valyria (Beginner Test Chapter)

How long had he been flying now? He should have rested days ago, the last time he passed a small island in the middle of this vast, gloomy, glassy sea. Every time he felt the need to stop, his left foot would remind him. _You are taking her home, you can't stop, not now. Not now. _  
It was a relief when he finally entered the warmer airs closer to Essos. The winds lifted the membranes of his great black wings, taking the strain off his shoulders and carrying him onwards across to the place he'd nested in whilst his brothers languished in chains underneath the Great Pyramid. While his mother had done it for good reasons, she believed, it was cruelty overall. She came to understand that, albeit very late, and she would not chain her children ever again.__

___Mother ..._ It was not known to Daenerys if dragons celebrated their mothers in the wild, they weren't when her ancestors tamed them as new hatchlings were given to children as soon as possible to start the bonding process. But she had hatched them, he remembered his first glimpse of life outside his egg, of a world bathed in fire, the scent of roasting flesh and burning oil, of dying screams ...  
And a pair of pale hands that came out of the fires in front of him, and picked him up. Held him to her breast, looked down at him with shimmering eyes filled with wonder, even as her fabric skin turned to ash and disappeared. She turned her head to look at the other eggs, with a gold and a green face emerging, his brothers. Both dead, both dead at the ends of the enemies. One he had to fight against as a living corpse, both he witnessed the dreadful demise of. All he had left was his mother._ _

__And now he didn't even have her anymore._ _

__His nest was close. He could smell the charred bones and scorched earth, even through the mists that shrouded the former capital, the place known as Old Valyria. He had flown here many moons ago, whilst travelling the continent of Essos, searching for food and making nests wherever he decided to land. A dragon was born to be free, they would often tell his mother, you will need to let them go. He would go, but he would come back. And now, he brought his mother back to this place.  
Ash and bracken lifted off the ground as he made his landing, a clumsy one as he tried to land on his right foot alone, his wings keeping his left side aloft as he gently put his mother's body down before moving his foot away to steady herself. Despite the scent of blood and death lingering on her clothing, he stared at her, waiting for a sign of life. Somehow, he wondered if the flight had revived her; her scent always lightened and fed through the joy she felt when atop the world on the back of her favourite son. _ _

__Nothing. He uttered a glutteral growl of irritated disappointment, his tail swinging round and knocking over some overgrown rubble. His nest was a flat piece of land surrounded by half-fallen towers and buildings, most of which were claimed by the elements and smothered in climbing vines. The earth itself had hosted many rare and exotic blooms in better times, but was nothing more than a weedpatch that had grown hearty by the volcanic dust from the Doom belched out by the Fourteen Flames. He had been drawn here by the warmth of the magma, still crawling through the veins of the world underneath the island. It was a gloomy place, the sun never coming out for more than a few hours at a time, if at all, content to shroud itself with a cloak of clouds, in mourning for the once-mighty empire it looked upon. There was nothing much to hunt, what prey there were from abandoned livestock had been quickly devoured when he lived here, and odd men who stank of decay fled the first time he torched one for trying to attack him._ _

__He would need to watch for them, he brooded. They might come for Mother._ _

__He turned around in his nest, pushing some stones out of the way that had been knocked over in his absence, and settled down to rest his weary wings. As soon as he was comfortable, he reached over to his mother, and with all the gentleness of a giant with a newborn, pushed her underneath his wing to protect her from the rain that rumbled overhead.  
He would find someone to heal her, he decided. After he rested, he would fly to Meereen, and find someone to help ..._ _


	2. An Audience in Meereen

"The Queen is dead"  
"Yes" Daario confirmed, though he would not show his emotion to this news. He had received word from Westeros earlier in the day, along with the confusing news of a new King, one named 'Bran the Broken'. What good was a broken King? Even with one that had a thousand eyes, as some whispered, and could see to the ends of the world. He also received a letter of condolence, noting that Daenerys had fought bravely in the War for the Dawn, losing Ser Jorah in the process. Nothing was mentioned about the Unsullied, though reports of a ship did come to him. The Dothraki seemed to be back in their Sea, rearranging themselves into various Khalasars as new Khals fought and rose and formed their herds. A part of him felt bitter; did nothing change then? She went West and ... died? That was it?  
It certainly felt that way, as he stood before an ambassador from Yunkai. After the last meeting with the Wise Masters lead to two of them being slaughtered by Grey Worm, they felt it better to send someone else to have their throat slit and deliver their terms. The news of the Dragon Queen's death hadn't just reached Meereen; everyone in Essos knew about it by now.  
"I expect that Meereen will come to terms with its loss"  
"It will" He knew where this was going, but if this glorified messenger boy was going to make his demands, he can make them as plain as possible.  
"And when can we expect Slaver's Bay to return to the ways of its former glory?"  
" _Dragon's Bay_ " Daario corrected him, "I know it is hard being a messenger, but you can at least get the name correct"  
"I do not accept insolence from sellswords" Came the tart reply, to which Daario could only give an amused smirk.  
"Pity, because that is all we are serving today, along with some fine tea"  
"Is she serving?" The ambassador nodded at Kinvira, the Red Priestess, who had become a part of Daario's small council as a figurehead for religious affairs. She had been tasked by Varys and Tyrion in Daenerys' absence to spread the word of Daenerys as a protector, as the Princess who was Promised, something the Lord of Light's followers were very eager to do. The propaganda had worked rather well, especially when the people saw Daenerys return and lead all three of her dragons into battle against the Wise Masters' seige against her city. Her death, however, had dealt a blow that didn't seem to phase Kinvira at all. Rather, she assured Daario before the ambassador demanded and audience, Daenerys' purpose had been fulfilled and she delivered upon the prophecy, bringing back the Dawn in her fight against the forces of darkness. 

Daario begged to differ.

"We serve only the Lord of Light" Kinvira smiled with that insufferably haughty smile that all Red Priests seemed to wear. There was just something about them that said that they were right, knew they were right, and didn't even entertain the idea of other people having opinions that contradicted theirs. If the fires said it, it was so. And Kinvira's fires told her that Daenerys was not gone from this world just yet; the Lord had plans with her yet, "We are all his servants"  
"My House has never served another" The ambassador sneered, distain bleeding through his voice at the very idea, turning to Daario, "You, however, have, and will if you do not return Meereen to its Great Masters"  
"There are no Masters in Meereen" Daario countered.  
"What are you, if not a Master?"  
"I am looking after the city in the name of Queen Daenerys Stormborn" He stated firmly, "We are going to give Meereen to its people. They will have no Masters, they will choose who rules them. No chain will ever be placed on a man, woman or child in Meereen again"  
"If you give sheep the right to rule, they will flock over the nearest cliff without a shepherd to guide them" The ambassador argued, "We can offer some experienced Masters to guide you if you feel you need help ..."  
"We need no help-"

The pyramid shuddered violently, plumes of dust snowing down from the stone roof and decorations scattering across the floor with the impact. The guards in the room, both for the Second Sons and the ambassador, reacted in shock and drew their weapons. Both sides looked at each other accusingly, but neither offered a threat or explaination. Another thudding shudder rocked the walls, and talons scraped above their heads across the roof.  
"DRAGON!" A guard screamed up the stairway to the meeting chamber, "THERE'S A DRAGON!"

-

The bellow of Drogon echoed across Meereen, shaking the pyramids of the rich and the middens of the poor alike with his demand for an audience.

Daario knew the sound very well, but had not heard it without the presence of his Queen. Since she was gone, and the Masters were salivating at the chance to recapture Meereen and restore their order, he could only wonder what the dragon wanted.  
Kinvira, on the other hand, lit up like a beacon at the sound of his call. Quickly, she made her way to the balcony outside the meeting chamber, turning on her heel to look up at Drogon from his perch. Where once a great Harpy spread her wings and claimed her place, now stood the living symbol of the Targaryen Queen.

"Your dragon does not scare us-" The ambassador sternly warned Daario, though he was ignored as Daario rushed to the balcony to join Kinvira and a small selection of guards to see what Drogon wanted. Some small part of him was still dismayed, despite himself, to not see Daenerys in her Dothraki garb atop his back, as she had been when she took the Khalasars as her own.  
"Great Drogon!" Kinvira greeted the dragon, her arms held high and a smile bright on her face, "Servant and vessel of the Lord of Light!"

Drogon looked down at the woman dressed in red, watching her carefully. She didn't present a threat, nor did she look familiar at all. The scent of fire was strong on her, he could almost see waves of heat lifting off her shoulders despite the breeze in the air. A taste lingered around her air, one that most people could detect if it were very strong, but few knew the meaning of.  
_Magic_ , Drogon noted, shifting his stance on the pyramid top. Exactly what he needed. Not the cold, biting, crushing magic he felt on Viserion after his death, it was a scent he had noted around Jon a few times, though it faded away with time and as his scent mingled with that of Daenerys.  
_This one_.

"He's no servant" Daario warned Kinvira, all too aware that Drogon was the most violent and unpredictable of Daenery's dragons, "You're best-"  
Drogon suddenly moved. In a flurry of wings, he rose up and brought a foot down upon the balcony, quickly grasping Kinvira around the head and shoulders before pushing away with his other foot, launching himself in a downward glide away from the pyramid before steering himself up and taking flight over the city. Kinvira, to her credit, did not scream, but having her head clasped in the talons of a dragon may pay more to her silence than any notes of bravery.

"... Your dragon thirsts for holy flesh, it seems" The ambassador noted drily, adjusting a gold bracelet on his wrist as he surreptitiously fixed his robes that had become undone in the move away from Drogon's reach.  
"... " Daario didn't think so, but he couldn't really think of any other reason as he watched him soar away into the horizon with the Red Priestess hostage. Where was he taking her? And why?

"You have seven days to return Meereen to the rule of the Harpy" The ambassador warned, his guard come to his side to escort him back to Yunkai, "We trust you will see sense and do so"  
"Trust in a sellsword is a foolish thing" Daarios replied simply, still watching Drogon's fading shadow in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just find the Red Priests/esses to be so Goddamn smug. Thin, still building, thank you so much for all your kind words and encouragement!


	3. Steel Wounds

Being stolen away by a dragon used to be a threat, whispered from wet nurses to naughty children who wouldn't go to sleep or eat their dinner. _If you're not careful, a great dragon will steal you out of your bed and eat you alive!_.

Drogon was more known as a menace to sheep than a devourer of man, at least when he was hungry. On the orders of his mother, or to protect them both, he was known to roast men alive without pause or hesitation. Everyone in the world was either an enemy, or meat, with very few safe from his wrath. Kinvira, for now, was safe until she did what he needed him to do.  
When he first met the mate of his mother, this 'Jon', he noticed immediately that there was something different about him. Not the coldness from Northern blood running in his veins, not the title of 'King' that meant nothing to a dragon, it was something deeper, harder for men to articulate. In truth, it was the taint of magic, of someone who had been snatched out of the endless maw of death and brought back. For as much as Daenerys might have loved him, and here scent infused into his, Drogon refused to wholly trust him. He had inspected the man very closely on Dragonstone, the hand of the King in the North pressed against his nose allowed Drogon to take him in as deep as possible, and he confirmed the air of death and revival around him. It was the same smell he found on Viserion, though the dragon absolutely reeked of it and his decaying flesh made it more pugnant. It was a different, warmer, steely scent on Jon; akin to the smell of a freshly forced sword still hot from the fire, notes of burning metal and singing embers mixed with dried blood and a whisper of winter frost. 

Fire. The lifeblood of a dragon, the blood in their veins. His mother was immune to the bite of fire, no matter if it came from a funeral pyre or the burning oil of a brazier. People normally weren't, and some whispered that Daenerys' bond with her dragons was the source. The same magic that birthed them on the night of Khal Drogo's funeral, it also blessed her with a kinship to the flame that no-one else could possibly grasp. The priests of R'hllor may worship fire, may sing to it and call upon the Lord of Light to return it to them for the dawn, but they were not immune to scorched flesh.  
Still, they were the closest kinship that Drogon could get his claws on. Finally sighting his nest, he let Kinvira drop a short distance to the ground before landing with a great thud, uttering a glutteral growl as he did so to warn her of his place. This was his nest, and she was here to fix his mother. She would know her place.

The flight would have been breathtaking, if Kinvira had been in any position to see it. Alas, her head and shoulders had been buried in Drogon's foot, his mighty talons firmly wrapped around her upper torso and under her arms. The fall was no more than a length or two, and onto soft grass, but she still took a moment to recover from the shock and push her long auburn hair out of her face. Breathless, she looked around her surroundings, trying to deduce where she was. The ground was warm, very warm, not from Drogon's presence but the oozing magma deep under the soil. The warmth felt good to her, as a Red Priestess, but worrying in that she had felt no land like this before. The grasses were long around her, filled with wildflowers, scattered ruins of towers and mansions broken for as far as the eye could see. A stream bubbled quietly some distance away, feeding the fields with fresh water, and climbing vines on the broken buildings leant their subtle perfume to the foggy air. An undertone of smoke caught her attention, along with the architecture she could discern from the ruins.

 _This is Old Valyria_.

She had no time to truly come to terms with the fact that she stood in the presence of one of the greatest empires the world had seen, nor appreciate that she spoke the language of the long-gone owners of this place, as Drogon addressed a prone figure lying on the grass. Dressed in black and red, pale hair spilling across the flattened grass, a silvery hilt protruding from her ribs, Kinvira could scarcely believe it.

Daenerys Targaryen. The Dragon Queen. The Princess Who Was Promised.

Kinvira blinked, staring at the corpse as Drogon inspected her. He nudged his mother, still wanting to believe that she would awaken without outside help, but the position of her limbs and the stillness of her chest spoke to the fact that she had been gone for some time. Uttering a whining trill, he turned his head and focused his amber eyes on Kinvira.  
His message was simple. _Help her_.

Kinvira was certainly going to try. She rose to her feet, her balance affected by her dragonflight, and gently kneeled beside Daenerys. Blood tailed from her nose and mouth in a thin line down towards her cheek, long-dried and flaking away into the air. Her hair, beautiful and silvery in the dull light, was smudged with soot, her black clothing holding even darker spots where blood congealed from the wicked looking dagger than had ended her life. It was such a simple blade, it was almost hard to believe that it had killed the formally undefeated Targaryen.  
_Even a small wound can take a life_. Daenerys learned that herself with the death of Khal Drogo. Old lessons return to bite hard.  
Drogon shifted from one foot to the other, making impatient growling noises and baring his teeth for a moment at Kinvira. Fix her, he demanded, heal her.  
"She is gone, great Drogon" Kinvira noted sadly, shaking her head. This was unacceptable to Drogon, who screeched at her, his hot breath scorching her nose and eyes as he did so.  
To make sure, she sat on the ground above Daenerys' head, placing her hands on the sides of her throat. Her arteries did not beat with life, but there was a feeling far deeper than that. It throbbed, weakly, a low rumble that Kinvira felt more in her own heart than through her hands. She looked dead, yes, but there was a part of her still alive. Was that what the dragon was asking her to bring back? Or did he just simply not want to let go of his mother?

Kinvira didn't know, but the possibility excited her. While Red Priests were known to bring back those whom the Lord of Light had deemed worthy, those who had succeeded were few and far between. Thoros of Myr, a very fortunate Priest, managed it many times, astonishing even those in the highest Temples in Volantis. She had heard of his achievements, and learned of the success of the priestess Melissandra, though noted that Melissandra was not entirely above deducing the wrong Promised Prince.  
Still, it was possible. And who else was better to receive the blessings of the Lord of Light than His own chosen Princess?  
Kinvira took a deep breath, placing her hands on Daenerys' temples. Closing her eyes, she recited her prayer.

_Āeksiot Ōño, rȳbagon ñuha jorepnon. Maghagon arlī naejot īlva Kivio Dārilaros. Ēza erntash se sȳndror, se zirȳla perzys iēdrosa daorunta trūma iemnȳ. Sigligon zirȳla perzys, ivestragī zirȳla āmāzigon naejot īlva. Stepagon aōha ōños isse aōha sytiderēbagon dārilaros, jehikagon albie rȳ se sȳndror hen vys._

She focused everything on that small pulse, calling to it, trying to feed it with her own life force, asking it to grow strong. Drogon watched, impatient, but willing to stay silent if it meant Kinvira could work better. He trilled, if only to let her know he was watching and awaiting the result he wanted, but she did not hear him over the sounds of her prayers ...

-

How long had she been saying her prayers? It felt like days, most certainly. She was dizzy from the lack of food and water, her hands almost stuck to the skin of Daenerys' temples, and the blood had left her legs from kneeling a long time ago. Many years before, when she lived at the Red Temple in Volantis, she trained in order to say her prayers all night and fed the fires to bring back the dawn the next morning. It was gruelling work, many times they would not sleep at all until a certain number of nights passed, but it made her connection with R'hllor stronger, in her opinion.  
But despite this, the pulse remained weak. She felt no answer to her prayer. The Lord of Light, it seemed, refused to bring back His Princess. The pulse, she mused, must otherwise be from the magic she shared with Drogon. Their bond, made flesh in a sense, and calling out as Drogon refused to let his mother rest.  
With all the dignity she could muster, she stood, her legs buckling under her weight as she fought to steady herself. She looked at the dragon, staring down the great beast as she lifted her chin up high.  
"I am sorry, great Drogon" She tried to be as respectful as possible, "I cannot revive her. The Lord does not see it fit to return her to us"  
There was a pause, as Drogon seemed to consider what this meant. He understood her, he clearly did, as he growled and reared his head up, the spines along his neck flaring with displeasure as he screeched high into the Valyrian night. It was a painful, torn cry that told Kinvira that he really wanted to believe she would bring his mother back, and this was not the news he wanted.  
"Great Drogon, I understand this is disappointing" She tried to placate him, "But if we can take her to the Temple in Volantis, my fellow Priests and I can beg the Lord's favour as one, and restore-"  
She was not allowed to finish her sentence. Drogon brought his head back down, and unleashed a torrent of fire upon her. Immediately, she burst into flames, her red robes disappearing almost instantly, the flesh and fat melting from her blackening bones, smothering the area in flame.  
In his temper, he turned Kinvira's execution into his mother's funeral pyre at the same time, and her body also burst alight, coated in yellow fire tinged with red and black, the dagger in her ribs bubbling and melting like a candle in a furnace. Her clothing resisted more than Kinviras, but it too melted away, the great chain that held her cloak becoming little more than a trail of silvery water dotted across her breast, the three-headed dragon pooling in her shoulder.  
Drogon watched his mother burn, ignoring the ashes of Kinvira burning up in the heat of Daenerys' pyre. If he could not bring her back, he was going to ensure she lay in a great nest of fire, and would go where the dragons go when they die ...

-

By the time the fire died, Drogon was sleeping. His head curled underneath his wing, he had watched the pyre for hours before deciding to sleep. He expected bones and ashes, which he would bury to stop anyone taking them. He did not want his mother coming back as Viseron did, nor disappear into water like Rhaegal did. The stress of the last few days caught up with the last dragon, and he fell into a black sleep that he wouldn't rouse from easily.  
So deep was his slumber, he didn't see that the fire had completely failed to destroy Daenerys. Her hair, as always, remained unburnt. The silver of her cloak chain reformed across her breast and shoulder, a trail of metal as a sash of war. The dagger, the one placed into her chest by the man she loved, had mostly fallen away, but the parts inside her remained and had melted to fill the wound, leaving a pebble-shaped seal on the outside. The grass around her dissolved, leaving only the blackened earth and her nude form open to the sky. 

After a few hours, her eyes opened, and she took a deep, smoke-filled breath ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinvira's prayer in Common Tongue: Lord of Light, hear my prayer. Bring again forward our the prince that was promised. She has defeated and darkness, and her fire still burns deep inside. Ignite her fire, let her return forward our. Share your light in your chosen heir, shine brightly across and darkness of the world  
> [Note: I used both a fan translator and a list of translated words for things the translator didn't convert. It's very badly written, but I hope it gets the point across!]
> 
> I am ... shocked, I'm honestly shocked and humbled from the kind comments I've received and all the kudos awarded when I posted the first two chapters. This was just supposed to be a vent-fic, and I've got ideas on where the story is going, but I probably would have given up after the tester chapter if not for your amazing words. Thank you everyone, please feel free to suggest changes or improvements!


	4. A Nest for Dragons

Soot. Salt. Smoke. Warm air, harsh dust, thickened blood. All she could see as her eyes opened at first was brightness, her eyelids illuminated in orange light before she could open them and behold a grey sky. It was more light than she had seen since she last fell into the dark sleep she curled into for ... how long?   
" _Jon ..._ " The first word on her lips shouldn't have been his name, but it was the last thing she saw and his face was burned into her memory. Why? Why had he done what he had done? What possessed him to slide the traitor's blade between her ribs? What had-

Her thoughts, confused and endlessly cascading as they were, stopped as the muscles in her abdomen contracted violently, heaving her body in an upward arch before she was able to roll over and vomit a sickly gold-coloured substance all over the grass. Choking, spluttering, she fought for breath as the reflex contracted again and brought up more of the vile ooze beside her pyre. The blood vessels of her eyes felt as though they were going to burst from the pressure in her head, tears poured from her eyes as she begged with herself not to vomit again, to no avail.

 _No, no, no, no ..._ a final retch, and she rolled back onto her side, shivering, her stomach rolling inside her and threatening to do it again. Small belches, filled with acid, served to taunt her but ultimately feel better as she tried to swallow down the bile in her throat. The smell was more than she could bare, but she did not have the strength to move just yet.   
Where was she? She could feel she was nude, her skin breaking out in a cold sweat from the stress of her situation. Her shoulder and side felt heavy, too heavy, and she brushed at the weight where Jon had stabbed her.  
Was that it? Was it the knife? Swallowing back another wave of bile, she looked down at the site of the wound, and saw the pebble-shaped lump of shiny, melted steel. She tried to brush it away, only to find it stuck hard. Melted to her skin? It certainly felt so; she clumsily tried to try it off, like a barnacle attacked to the sleek underside of a ship, only for the skin to lift with it, and a deep ache to radiate down her core.  
 _Did Drogon's fire do that?_  
 _Drogon_

The great, black shape of her eldest son had been in her peripheral vision ever since she rolled onto her side. As her sight became clearer, she could see him snoring contently not far away. He was safe. He was safe.  
After perhaps ten minutes, she gathered what little strength she had and started to pull herself towards the dragon. Delirium caused the world to spin, tilting suddenly and sharply to the right constantly, turning up into sideways, and making her 'fall over' despite crawling on her belly across smooth grass.   
_I need to be with him_ She thought, feeling the warmth radiating off his black scales, _He needs me_  
By the time she reached him, she was exhausted. Grass stained her pale skin with smears of green, the silver embedded in her shoulder and chest glimmering dully and being warmed with Drogon's presence. She collapsed aside his head, her arm draped across the bridge of his muzzle. The sleeping beast uttered the softest trill, moving his head closer to the figure lying beside him, bringing his wing closer and touching her leg with his foreclaw. While he still slept soundly, the scent of his mother filled his senses, and her touch was as familiar as the sight of the morning sky. His instinct was to keep her close, keep her safe, despite not knowing she had come back to him.  
 _He is safe_ The relief was almost overwhelming, and she blinked back even more tears. She was too exhausted to move any further. Her thoughts danced between Jon, Drogon, the Unsullied, King's Landing ... The sight of the Throne, alive, covered in gold and writhing as though it were alive. She had seen the faces of countless Masters in King's Landing, all pointing to her, all screaming insults and threats. She saw the bodies of children used as barricades, she had seen effigies of herself strung up, pelted with shit and nude for abuse. She had heard Euron Greyjoy's ecstatic laughing as he took Rhaegal through the streets and butchered him, the people coming to devour the dragon's flesh raw ...

_Did I truly see that?_

At the time, with her effortless destruction of the Golden Company with their war elephants cleverly disguised as city walls, she would have thought this was another trick of Cersei's. But, as she watched a spider crawl against Drogon's scales, she did have to wonder.  
 _Why are you wondering?_ The spider suddenly spoke into her head, turning a thousand, shimmering, angry eyes towards her, speaking in the voice of Varys, _Your father was mad, your grandfather was mad, Viserys was mad, you were born to be mad too. You are the Mad Queen of Dragonstone ..._  
Drogon rumbled in his sleep, shaking his frills on his neck, and the spider with a thousand eyes suddenly disappeared. She blinked, staring at where it had been.  
 _She will kill us all_ Vary's voice echoed, her skin crawling with a hundred thousand spiders, each with their back stamped with the insignia of a Silver Stag, _She will kills us all. Kill us all. Burn us all. BURN US ALL!_  
"No ..." She cried out weakly, trying to brush off the spiders that tried to smother her, "No, no, no...!"

Another trill. Drogon shifted again, hearing the cries of Daenerys, and moved his head to press against her, his wing covering her completely and smothering her in a warm, comforting darkness. The spiders, again, vanished before her eyes, and the lack of light filled her vision with nothing but black, red, and orange from light shining through the leathery wings of Drogon.  
 _Drogon is safe. Drogon is safe_ She told herself, pressing her hands against her son's cheek.

_I ... am safe. I am now safe_

Repeating that thought, that comforting thought, she closed her eyes and joined her dragon in a deep, healing sleep ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't deserve you all, I really don't.
> 
> The cause of her 'snap' is just ... stupid, and I don't know how I'm going to change that beyond what I'm going to put down. It's going to come across as 'dOn'T bLaMe My PeRfEcT qUeEn u MEANIES!11!" but honestly, really, THAT snap? After 7 seasons of clear thinking? Yeesh. At least I have an excuse for Daenerys, Jon looks hella worse.
> 
> Fun fact: each chapter is written in one shot, with spellchecking at the end. I pause at times to double-check something on the GOT Wiki, but for the most part, they're done in one.


	5. Bittersweet Thoughts

It was more the high-pitched, almost infantile chirrups that roused Daenerys more than the bumps on the dragon's jaw poking her skin. He nudged his mother, curious that she had moved, and sensing that she was alive once more but wanting to confirm this fact. She groaned, the stress of her resurrection and messy evacuation of her stomach weighing on her more than Drogon's chin.

"Drogon ..." She croaked, her eyes opening and staring deep into the draconic gaze examining her. His nose touched the silver on her ribs, and she hissed between her teeth. He drew his head back immediately, his frills up in alert, but she cooed and touched his neck.  
"It's alright ... I'm fine ..." She was most certainly not, but that was a very easy lie for a Queen. A Queen who admitted weakness or illness would be picked off by the wolves snapping at their heels.  
 _Wolves ..._ She could not help but think of Jon. Of Sansa, of Arya, of the cold glares of the Northmen, of the cold gaze of Viserion ...

Drogon yawned, his lips drawing back and showing row upon emerging row of sharp teeth. Daenerys sat up slowly, her long, beautiful blonde hair messy from travelling and death, her skin smudged with soot and blood. She could see the dried mess of gold-coloured vomit on the grass not too far away, as well as the charred bones of Drogon's prey ...  
... And what looked like a human skull.  
"... Drogon" Daenerys looked up at him, "Did you eat a man?"  
Drogon looked almost offended at the accusation, utterly a childish sneer of his lips and shaking his neck, suggesting he thought himself above that. Daenerys, however, knew that dragons would eat a man just as quick as they would eat a mutton, so there was a difference in why this one had died.  
She decided not to ask anymore, standing up on wobbly legs, holding onto his wing for support as she steadied herself. Her throat was red-raw and parched, her stomach empty but still brimming with acid, and her head swarmed with a thousand thoughts like angry hornets.  
Water. She needed water first.  
This was the first time she could truly take in her surroundings, and she had to admit to herself that she had no idea where they were. This was nothing knew; Drogon had taken her to the Dothraki Sea after rescuing her from the Fighting Pit, so she could be forgiven for not knowing the dragon's travel plans, or where he had made nests whilst out of her care. Something about this place felt very familiar, stirring old memories in her blood, but nothing was going to make much sense in her weakened state. It was at least a nice place, with long grass growing wild where Drogon hadn't trampled it or reduced it to ash, tumbled buildings being reclaimed by vines ...  
 _The skull stares at me_ Daenerys made a note to bury it at some point, afford it some dignity, before setting off in the direction of water.

A bubbling brook that once might have fed a mighty aquaduct in the palaces of old on this land instead found themselves feeding a Queen. Instead of merely sipping from the surface, Daenerys waded into the waters, sighing at the feel of the cold water against her battle-weary skin. Though it sent shivers through her, and ached around her silver plug, it was a good sensation that she cherished, despite her lack of goodwill towards the cold. The water, clean and fresh, was sweet to the taste and she drank clean from the surface as though she were a mare. She may have looked radiant, or she may have looked pathetic, she cared neither way. A great rush of wind whipped her hair across the water, and she caught sight of Drogon flying away.  
 _I hope he is away to catch supper_ She mused, before remembering those were her words after Drogon landed her in the Dothraki Sea, so many moons ago. She remembered how she begged to be taken back to Meereen, to be with her people, despite Drogon's wounds. She professed pity for him, yes, but now she realised how terrible she had been for focusing on Meereen instead of her own son.  
Her only son. She would weep for Rhaegal and Viserion for many years, she knew. The tears threatened to come as she went over the dreadful moment the Night King's spear pierced Viserion's body, when Euron Greyjoy's Scorpion bolts impaled Rhaegal's body in a bloody and viscerally barbaric show of might. _My sweet children ..._  
This war, this foolish, messy, painful war cost her so much. Jorah. Missandei. Viserion. Rhaegal. The lives of Dothraki and Unsullied. The crown. The love of her life. Her life. For what? What was it all in aid of? For snakes to whisper poison into the ears of those who were supposed to be her friends? To defend a people that were just as willing to turn around and bite the dragon that freed them?

_What did I do all this for?_

Ever since Viserys died, she had one cause. To take the Iron Throne. Before, that was his cause, and she was a bargaining token to use and abuse when it suited him. She wanted the throne to ensure she would not be treated as property again. To make sure no-one would harm Rhaego again. And that cost her Rhaego, Drogo, everything. Her path to that Throne asked for payment in blood, and she gave it. Time, and time, and time again. All for nothing. All for _nothing_.  
It started as soon as she talked to Drogo about the Throne, she was growing to realise, as she sat in the river and pondered her fate. Before that, she was content to be with him, treated as ... not an equal, but someone worth listening to. She was pregnant with the Stallion Who Would Mount The World. She could have been Khaleesi, and Rhaego could have made the Throne simply another part of his great Khalasar once he became Khal, as she knew he would have been.  
Instead, she was proclaimed barren by a witch who murdered her husband and baby. But she arose as the Mother of Dragons, freed slaves, and became a Queen in her own right. With her dragons, Jorah, Grey Worm, Missendai, all at her side.  
 _My birthright was going to be given to a man who didn't want it_ She signed out of her nose, _Simply because he was a man, and I was considered a mad woman_.  
That made her stomach burn with annoyance. Jon didn't need to tell anyone. Or, if he did, his sister didn't need to tell anyone. She could have been Queen, Sansa could have asked for the North to be it's own Kingdom. She was going to give Yara Greyjoy the Queendom of the Iron Islands, freedom, like they always wanted. She was going to tear down the power system that took advantage of the poor for so long, feting fat lords and vicious Houses in the name of money and blood at the cost of common lives. She freed slaves in Meereen, Astapor, Yunkai, even when she was with the Dothraki. Why did the Westerosi lords think she would want to hoard power? Because that was what they would do? For being so confident that the 'foreign whore' would be made and kill them all, they most certainly didn't understand what her goals were. 

A naive little girl who thought she could free the world. Naive, yes, she had grown to understand she was idealistic, but refused to back down from her dream of a world of free men. Little girl, most certainly not. The little girl who was abused by Viserys and his malignant temper had died the moment he had threatened to rip Rhaego from her womb. She had not blinked when he was crowned by Drogo with gold. She felt nothing. Her brother, her weak, pathetic, half-mad brother, he had died as soon as the sword tip pressed against her belly. Jorah was shocked when she would not look away. She was not.

She took another sip of the riverwater, a cleansing drink to go with the bitter memories. The taste of bile and acid lingered in her mouth, and she made a note to find some wild sweet mint later to be rid of it and freshen her teeth. She had to wonder ... What was causing her sickness? The gold in her vomit worried her, but it was slowly coming to her that perhaps, just perhaps, every horrible thing she had been seeing since she woke up was a result of it.  
And, just perhaps, what she had seen before it ...

She mused on this as she stepped out of the river, sitting on a piece of fallen masonry beside the river and wringing the water out of her hair. Starting to undo the many, many braids on the back of her head, she started to piece together when exactly things started to become strange. She knew the Spider had tried to poison her, she was warned by her Unsullied. A little girl, scarcely older than a babe to her, was instructed by him to put it in the Queen's food. She had avoided it, but had she been slipped something at another point? Varys was a coward, she noted, at least when it came to direct murder of the powerful. She doubted Tyrion would have ... but he had become so convinced of her evil that there was a chance his hand had been tilted. And gold _would_ be fitting for a Lannister.  
Jon? No. Jon would not poison; he had dealt with her directly ... The muscles around her silver wound rippled with the thought, and she quickly moved on.  
Sansa? Arya?  
Maybe.  
She sighed, knowing that her cause now in King's Landing would be lost. The people would see her as a brutal tyrant, not a poisoned woman lashing out. _She_ would trust no-one that tried to excuse butchery with delusions. Her family did it when the delusions were the product of a corroded mind, not just poison.   
_So what am I to do?_

She looked at the horizon. She had no idea of her bearings, so could not guess where the direction of King's Landing was. Or even where Meereen lay, the one place she could return to in reasonable safety. She was alone with Drogon here, though it was quiet and peaceful, that she was grateful for. She watched the distant skyline, waiting to see if she would return, and noticed that smoke wafted into the air just at the lip of the horizon.  
More than one plume of smoke, actually. Lit by embers from a fire that had to be gigantic for her to see it at this distance. Some rose from land, others from the naked sea, which was strange. Just as she undid the last of her braids, it came to her.  
Those were what remained of the Fourteen Flames. They had seen the Smoking Sea on their way to Westeros, at a very safe distance, of course, and Jorah had pointed out her ancestral homeland, or what remained of the broken pieces.

_I am in Old Valyria_

Her wonder at being in the very place her bloodline truely began was broken by the arrival of Drogon, fresh from the hunt, and bringing back a very large bull for them to share. Dropping it in his nest, he set the bull alight briefly, using a gust from his wings to put out the flames and begin taking large chunks of flesh from the carcass. Daenerys' mouth salivated at the smell of roasted beef, and she hurried to join her son at the meal.  
The last time she interfered with his food, he snarled at her. However, he was more happy to share, confident in his hunting skills and knowing his much smaller mother would not each as much. She took handfuls of meat from the soft belly, stuffing them in her mouth without ceremony. It may have looked savage, but Drogon looked at her almost with pride, watching his weakened mother take her first bites since she woke up. She gasped at how fast she had been eating, wiping the juices from her mouth with the back of her hand.  
"We are home, Drogon" She said, looking around their nest, "We are home ...."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, I was debating on wither to do a certain thing one way or the other, and decided to do it the crazy theory way because it's a lot more fun. I might do another fic, like Kiss of Fire Alternative Path that doesn't have this in it. The planned plotline needed some details in a past chapter to be edited, to avoid implications of certain thoughts and feelings.  
> Hella vague, but hopefully you'll see soon.
> 
> P.S. I just needed more doting Drogon and his tiny mummy in my life, okay.


	6. Letters from the Depths

Modesty was something that had been stripped from Daenerys many times. She had been stripped against her will, she had been paraded in sheer clothing to show her off to her future husband, she had emerged from fire naked as the day she was born three times now.

_Three heads of the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon_

Drogon did not care what his mother did or did not wear; he knew her scent better than he knew his own wings, and he was content cracking open the bones of the ox for the roasted marrow inside, while Daenerys looked around their nest site.   
The area was warm, a deep warmth that very likely came from the Fourteen Flames. Despite this being the site of the downfall of Valyria, the destruction of her people sans her ancestors that managed to flee to Dragonstone thanks to the visions of Daenerys the Dreamer, she didn't feel sadness in this place. It did not feel like a place of ghosts, rather, it felt like a dusty and forgotten home. While everything was strange, there was an air of comfort as well, and she could almost see the shapes of the towers of Old Valyria, where the wealthy wined and dined, and dragons flew and roosted close to their riders.  
 _It's a home beyond a home_. Little wonder Drogon felt attracted to this place, with the warm earth and careful shielding from a world that may want to hunt him for sport and for the chance to cover themselves in glory. Especially after her 'death', she had to assume that many eyes would be watching for him and for what he did with her body.

She watched her son as he effortlessly broke open the bones for his sweets, and allowed herself a smile. Despite her death, he carried her here. He was worthy of the title of her child, no matter the odd looks it garnered her sometimes. He had scales, he breathed fire, he soared the skies, but he protected her and always came to her aid. HE was a greater son that some mothers could call their children.  
"My Drogon ..." She put her palm on his nose. He looked at her, interrupted in his feasting, and paused as he watched her with careful eyes. She waited, waited to see if he would snap and snarl as he did when he was younger. When she tried to calm him as he squabbled with Rhaegal and Viserion over a mangled sheep the three were determined to eat.  
Instead, he picked up half of the ox' thighbone that he had broken open, and offered it to his mother with a nod of the head. She could almost cry at his thoughtfulness. She had worked hard to try and feed him as a hatchling, not realising he needed his meat roasted before he would eat it. Now he seemed to know he needed to feed his mother, a hatchling in her own right at the moment, and her smile deepened.  
"Thank you ..." She was not without manners, taking the piece of bone and kissing his nose. He rumbled a very soft purr, taking the other half of the thighbone to share the meal.  
As she scooped the marrow out of the bone, she started to think about what she was going to do. She didn't want to go back to Westeros, that much was certain. All that would be waiting for her there was an immediate execution, likely at the hands of the very people who had poisoned her. The people would not welcome her. The Targaryen name was all but completely destroyed now. That burned her more than anything else; she had raised her House from the dead, and brought honour and glory by becoming the Dragon Queen ... and it was all lost in a moment. She quickly changed her thinking to something else, to avoid the bile rising up in her throat again. 

Essos? She could go back to Meereen, but the constant fight with the Masters had been nothing but a demoralising drain on her. She could go and find where her Unsullied had gone, to make sure they were alright. She had to assume that Grey Worm, as a good leader, would have taken his men somewhere else. Perhaps even continued to free slaves, as free men and without the tie to her cause. That ... she would be very happy with. She had no need for an army, she mused. She didn't want that damn Throne and the curse it seemed to bring her bloodline. If they wished to retire, that too would be fine. Missandei had thought about going back to Naarth with Grey Worm, and she was sad at the time. But as she thought about it more after her friend told her, she realised it would be an honourable end to their service. She and Grey Worm could retire in peace, back to Missandei's homeland, one she had not seen since she was five years old. Live as husband and wife. Daenerys could visit them, she hoped, or even simply offer to host them should they want to visit her in King's Landing or Dragonstone. Honoured guests. Honoured friends.  
Meereen was still vulnerable. She had confidence that Daario would do as they had planned; use the Second Sons as a means to transition Meereen to a Free city that was ruled by the people, in their name. Wither the remaining Masters would allow that was another matter; Grey Worm's blade and Tyrion's soft words, along with the might of her three sons, had very firmly told them to change their ways or she would bring the wrath of her army to their door once more. And this time, Drogon would not be so small.

Should she return to Meereen anyway? A show of strength, a possible ghost that would bring the wrath of the Targaryens on anyone who tried to return her city to slavery? She was not a great believer in ghosts, but the idea had merit. She could still pretend to be dead and keep her peace for a while longer, while at the same time show herself and her legacy. However, would the cities have scorpions, like the one that took away Rhaegal?  
She paused. It was possible, but would they be expecting an attack when she was supposed to be in Westeros, and now dead. Drogon was alive, she had no doubt that the news that her dragon lived would be known. Would they bother to arm themselves against one now-wild dragon? What would they be afraid to lose? Sheep, slaves, anything Drogon simply wanted to destroy? Their wealth and lack of compassion for people meant nothing would be missed. Drogon could just be treated as a flying wolf; a natural risk that was negligible.   
This was all a bit much as she was trying to simply enjoy the treat that Drogon had thoughtfully given her. She rested her thoughts and finished her marrow, wiping her greasy hands on the grass afterwards. She paused, standing up and addressing her dragon.  
"Drogon, I'm going for a walk" She said, as Drogon continued mining the bones for their marrow, "I'll be back soon. I'm just going to see where the shore is"  
He gave a soft growl to show he understood her, his neck frills flaring for a moment. She nodded, and set off in the first direction that came to mind.

-

It was a long walk to the nearest shoreline, but it was a pleasant one for her. How long had it been since she simply enjoyed a stroll through the wilds of nature? She couldn't even remember; her time since Viserys' death was in pursuit of the crown, and leisure time was few and far between. The last true time she had to enjoy herself was the dragonflight with Jon, and she quickly changed the subject in her mind as her twin pain of Rhaegal and the man who had stabbed her heart and her ribs came to haunt her.   
The silver across her chest and the steel in her front hadn't gone unnoticed. She realised the sash across her breast and broken circle at her shoulder were from the chain she used to hold her cloak. It was melted deep into her skin, and she had to admit, she liked it in a way. A sash of war, of victory. She would take it as an eternal reminder of her first life, good and bad. The plug on her front was nothing but negative; she tried again to pray the pebble-like seal away, but it again pulled her skin with it, and a deep, terrible pain radiated from her core as she did so. It was the knife, she knew, and the rest of it had melted and resealed inside her. Part of her recoiled in deep disgust at the permanent penetration of treason, but another part of her, the proud Targaryen fire, reclaimed it. It was not a memory of treason. It was a reminder that one could try and kill the dragon, but she took the steel, and Drogon reforged it with dragonfire. Recast as a seal to her punctured organs. _You may have stabbed me, Jon Snow, but this blade is now mine. And, by the Great Stallion, I am keeping it forever_.  
Old thoughts and new. Old wounds and new. As she passed the ruins, she ran her fingertips against the scorched stone, seeking the knowledge and memories of Old Valyria as she sought the shore. Broken effigies of dragons, shattered paintings of griffins, there were no bodies, she noted. The Doom was many hundreds of years ago, before she was even conceived. The warnings of Daenerys the Dreamer had saved the Targaryens, bringing them to Dragonstone and out of harm's way. It seemed only fitting to her that another Daenerys would come back to this place. She wondered what Daenerys was like, and how she would make of what had happened to their family. What any of Old Valyria would have made of the last of their direct kin. She kept the language alive in her tongue, Viserys in his few moments of wisdom had ensured that. The dragons responded as surely as the average man responded to the Common Tongue, though Drogon understood that as well.   
After many hours, she found the sea, dark and churning in the dim light of day. The belching smoke of the remains of the flames shrouded the sun most of the time, their basalt tears forming the inky sands she now stood upon. She wrapped her arms around herself, cold suddenly, as the salty breeze licked her skin. She needed clothing, even just for a sense of normalcy in these confusing times. Taking a walk along the beach, she pondered about the Flames themselves; Viserys told her that their people had found dragons nesting in them, and sought to tame them. Might there be bones, or even eggs, remaining there? She dismissed the idea, remembering that the Flames had powerfully exploded, sending fire, molten rock and ash for hundreds of thousands of miles. If there were any eggs remaining that weren't strip-mined away by the Valyrians, they would have been thrown all around the world by the force of the Doom.   
Still, it was a comforting thought to believe that there were still eggs in the world. She would find them, she decided, walking parallel to the Flames on the shore of her shattered ancestral homeland. That would be her new goal. She felt adrift, useless, a token, a bargaining piece unless she had something to allow her fierce and determined mind onto. She would not forget the slaves, never would she forget them. She simply would replace a crown for a cradle, and would bring more dragons into the world. Return the magic lost with time. 

She did not want Drogon to be the last, and die truly alone, as she would, as the last true, full-blooded Targaryen.

 _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. A dragon alone, surely worse_.

She knew that there was supposed to be a hoard of dragon eggs in Dragonstone, but many lords who took over the island from her family had tried to find them and failed. Her dragons didn't find anything, she would have known if they had found any eggs, and no miners taking out dragonglass found anything either. Wherever the last dragon eggs were, they would be either wild, forgotten, or in the hands of the wealthy. She had no doubt that when her own eggs hatched the price of a single dragon egg would have reached heights unimaginable. Perhaps more fools had tried to hatch them. She doubted any succeeded; her own made news across the world, she surely would have heard if someone else managed the same thing. 

And Drogon would have met another dragon very easily.

The mists were heavy on the beach, not allowing her to see more than a few lengths ahead of herself. The appearance of a wreaked ship was something of a surprise when it emerged from the fog, or at least half of a wreaked ship. The other half had likely sunk before the front made its final rest here, and the splintered and rotting wood spoke to hitting something under the waves. Painted black with the belching soot of the Flames, she had to guess this was what happened to sailors who had come too close to the ill-fated areas of the Smoking Sea; Jorah constantly worried about coming too close to the islands wreaked by the Doom, much to her growing annoyance when they sailed for Westeros. Some claimed to have sailed right past the ruins. Others doubted them.   
It appeared that some did, but did not live to tell about it. Cautiously, she approached the vessel, wondering what could remain inside.  
"Hello?" Her throat was still raw from vomiting, though healing thanks to the roasted ox and clean water from earlier. No reply came, and she peered into the open belly of the cleaved ship. While there were no men inside, there were still trunks of cargo, strapped to the sides of the ship with chains and leather thongs. Surprised, she stepped inside and examined the chests, deducing they were from Essos and it seemed like they were on their way to King's Landing, judging from the Lannister Lion sigil coupled with a Free Cities mark on the locks.   
Picking up a rock from the beach, she tried to smash in the lock, but found that breaking through the wooden roof of the chest was easier, due to being soaked in sea water for so long. Bottles of spices and waterlogged wine greeted her, nothing that was of interest. Another chest gave her cloth, and she pulled that out with joy, finding uncut bolts that would be useful for wrapping up in at night. They would need to be washed and dried, but that was worth it. Another chest had soaps and perfumes, a couple of which she wrapped in a piece of cloth to wash them up with once she went back to the nest.   
She had only just broken through another chest when a wave of fetid cheeses and mouldy pastries engulfed her senses. Gagging, she stuffed the hole she had made with a piece of cloth too damaged to take away. That was not going to be of any use.   
The final chest that hadn't already leaked its contents away contained clothing, and she found a useful pair of breeches, albeit the length was more suited to a boy than herself. A tunic was a touch big, but a leather belt made it fit her hips, and a cloak completed the basic outfit. Boots were harder, most either too big or too small, so she settled on a pair of leather sandals until she could get her hands on something better. Taking a moment to rest, she spotted some papers resting in a nook carved into the side of the ship, and pulled them out to take a look, resting on the top of a chest to make herself more comfortable.

Most of it was simply shipping invoices, a lot had damaged areas that stick together with the ink bleeding to make the words hard to read. The final page, however, immediately grabbed her, as it bore once again the Lannister Lion, along with a crown sigil. A message from 'Queen' Cersei.  
Daenerys' blood boiled as she read it. It stated that the 'foreign whore, Daenerys of House Targaryen, comes to usurp the rightful succession, as established by King Robert of House Baratheon'. How many times did she need to say she was born on Dragonstone? Born to the Queen Rhaella, the King Aerys, seed of Aegon the Conqueror himself? _Robert_ was the usurper, anyone with half a brain would know. And Cersei was not royal, she was wed into it, and only took the throne after all her children died. What made her Queen?   
Irritated, she threw the letter to the floor. Even after death, she would be reminded that she was considered an outsider from a dead House whose only asset were her sons. Not Daenerys who freed the slaves, not Daenerys who rose from a child fleeing a fallen dynasty to claim a Queendom in her own name. A mad whore with three eggs and an army of cockless men purchased with trickery. 

The pleasantness at finding so many useful things turned decidedly sour at the sight of a single letter. She shook her head, rubbing her face and tried to focus herself.  
First, she would return to Drogon to let him know she was safe. She would wash the clothing, including the items she was wearing, and set up a little den in his nest.

Then, oh then, she would go to Meereen. And remind the world that the ghost of Daenerys Targaryen rose to ride the world again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man. The comments and kudos I receive on this honestly give me so much joy. I near-cried on the train after reading them, thank you all so much, you are all so kind.   
> I started this just as a taster with no real intention of continuing. It's growing a life of it's own, and I hope you are all enjoying so far. Fair warning; there is going to be an event the future that might make or break the story, but heck, it was an idea I've been in love with for a while and what's the use of a fanfic if you don't explore it??
> 
> HANG ON FOLKS IT'S GONNA GET WILD!


	7. In The Den of Wolves

Across the Narrow Sea, as one Queen planned her future, a King was trying to seek her present.

Ser Payne, simply 'Pod' to most, stood to the side of the King with his hands clasped in front of him, his face most notably uncomfortable. Brandon Stark, King Bran the Broken, the Three-Eyed Raven, was lost in his visions and the flights of his wargs, leaving his body to be guarded by his gold-plated Kingsguard. With his head tilted back slightly, his eyes white in a thousand-length stare, Pod would never get over how discomforted he felt whenever his liege lord became transfixed in these 'moods'. Bran, overall, was odd to him. Not cold, exactly, but distant. As though he were talking to the world from a distant mountaintop via a whisper on the wind, and had no concept of the present. HE said as much himself, once, further unnerving the young knight.

Pod's former guardian, the lady Ser Brienne, had become the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. While Pod acted as His Grace's escort and pushed his chair, she occupied herself by ensuring the safety and security of the Red Keep. A difficult task, made all the harder from the fact that Drogon had blown half of the Keep to pieces with his attack on King's Landing. The Throne Room was a shadow of its former self, the sky open to the elements, the Throne itself little more than a pile of melted slag. Still, Bran insisted on being brought here and sitting in the Throne's place, a ramp quickly arranged for him by local joiners who were already overworked trying to rebuild the capital.

While the Lords and Ladies that were left after the wars were not here, hundreds of ravens were. Perched on the ruined walls, chattering to themselves, grooming their feathers, leaving shit and down wherever they sat. A court of crows, for the Three-Eyed Raven, it would seem, and Pod nervously side-eyed the birds as a few stared at him with their beady black eyes. Was Bran inside one, looking at Pod? He had no way of knowing.  
Ser Payne was not the only person who could this all a bit much. The common people, the ones not melted by dragonfire and slaughtered by Dothraki and Northmen, whispered to themselves in the dark about the new King they had not seen. _The King can see everything. He sees you on your chamber pot, he sees you with your cock out, he sees when you shit in your neighbour's midden, he sees, he sees EVERYTHING ..._

Bran had been told that Drogon was flying east, and tried his hardest to locate the dragon. He certainly saw Drogon at points, and briefly saw him again in the vicinity of Meereen, where the second-youngest Stark was sure he would return to, but for long periods the animal simply could not be found. The few times he directly saw him, he tried to 'jump' across to him, warg directly into the last dragon, but found his pathway completely blocked.  
One didn't know if dragons were able to be warged. No-one had tried, and their intelligence made it an open question. It seemed, at least from this distance, the answer was no.It was frustrating, and perplexing, as all traces towards where Drogon had gone seemed to be obscured with smoke and mist. Not a deliberate block on his ability, one he'd encountered in his battles with the Night King. It was a feeling that he simply was not allowed to come to wherever Drogon had gone.

And that made it more important for him to find him.

There was no door to the Throne Room anymore, long pulled down as unsafe from what remained of the pillars that supported it, but Pod could tell by sound when someone approached through it. To his relief, he beheld the tall, white-cloaked figure of a woman, her short blonde hair swept back and her angular features more gaunt than usual.  
"Lad-Ser Brienne" Pod nodded his head in greeting, only just catching his error, to  
Brienne's annoyance. She let it go temporarily, and looked at Bran, before addressing Pod.  
"Is His Grace alright"  
"Oh, yeah" Pod nodded, "He's ... been away for a little while"  
"..." Brienne was growing concerned with the amount of time the King was doing that, but said nothing. Instead, she passed onto her reason for coming.  
"Lord Tyrion requests that the King joins him for supper. He says that there are matters pertaining to the Kingdoms that he wishes to discuss with him"  
"Ah" Podrick paused, "His Grace says that 'Do whatever Sansa wishes', and "I have not found Drogon yet, but I am looking", and "Jon is well and safe, the Wildlings are back Beyond the Wall"  
"... He told you to say that?"  
"He did" A nod, "He says he is not hungry, and will take something in his rooms later"  
"... Podrick, you may be doing what the King wishes, but-"  
"What he is saying is true" Bran suddenly spoke up, his eyes returning to their original hazel-brown colour. Both golden-armoued knights stared at the King, and he continued in his soft, airy voice.  
"I gave my instructions to Ser Payne directly. You can take his word as mine"  
"With ... All due respect, your Grace" Brienne bowed her head a little, but her gaze never left Brans, "I ask to ensure that is correct, and that Ser Podrick is not acting without proper authority. Your life cannot be risked"  
"I trust him" Bran said simply. The two stared at each other for quite a few moments, as Pod had the sense to look uneasy. Finally, Brienne nodded.  
"As you wish, your Grace" She bowed, leaving the room with a subtle wave of her immaculate white cloak.  
Satisfied, Bran lost himself in his visions again ...

-

"Bear Island. The Last Hearth. Deepwood Motte?"  
"House Glover appears alive. They have sent a raven to congratulate you on your coronation"  
Sansa's gaze darkened. The Glovers had refused to fight in the War for the Dawn in anger over Jon bending the knee, and she would never forget the insults and refusal to help her and Jon fight the Boltons for Winterfell. She would not tolerate such rebelliousness in her Queendom. She made a note to be rid of the Glovers as soon as a good House presented itself.  
"The Dreadfort"  
"The Dreadfort has an owner" Yohn Royce spoke up. Though he was from the Vale, part of the Six Kingdoms of Bran, he was here to give good wishes from Sansa's cousin, Robin Arryn, on her ascension as Queen of the North. His wisdom was something she sought when Daenerys stayed at Winterfell, on how to treat this 'invasion' of her home and the ancient ties the North had to the rest of the Kingdom, what precisely the North did with Targaryens. Now, as she was still building her Small Council, she included Yohn since he voiced support for her brother as King. 

"Who?"  
"You"  
She raised a cool brow at him, but he did not blink.  
"You are Ramsey Bolton's widow. You own the Dreadfort"  
Sansa raised her chin, steel in her eye and a burning in her gut as she was reminded of her sickening marriage.  
"That was not a true marriage"  
"It was witnessed, it passed into law at the Citidel, it was consummated, unlike your marriage to Tyrion Lannister" He did not back down from his assertion, no matter how much Sansa didn't want to hear it, "You are still the Lady of the Dreadfort"  
"No longer" She immediately declared, "I will give the Fort to someone who deserves it, someone who fought for the Starks and for the North"  
"The Dreadfort has possibly a garrison left in it" The new Maester noted, tapping a quill to his parchment, "You would be wise to make sure it is empty first"  
She rather hoped they had all starved to death with no-one to whip them and torture them, Sansa thought. Still, that brought her to her next topic.  
"Have we had word from the Small Council regarding relief"  
"The Lord of Highgarden says he regrets to inform you he cannot sell you grain, for it is needed in the South for rebuilding"  
Sansa paused. Sell?  
"And of compensation to the North to rebuild Winterfell, the childhood home of the King?"  
"The Master of Coin states that all coin is needed to rebuild King's Landing and the naval fleet, so that trade may continue"

She could scarcely believe it.

"Has Bran spoken to this Lord and Master?"  
"They are the same, Bronn the Sellsword of Highgarden"  
A Sellsword. She had read the news, of course, but part of her still could not believe that a sellsword had been granted one of the richest castles in the country, as well as trusted with the Treasury. It was Tyrion's appointment, Bran had allowed him to do whatever was best. but Sansa was beginning to see this was going to be disastrous for her North. Now that she was an independent Kingdom, she could expect no gifts from the South, sans what her brother would give her. And it appeared that Bran was in no hurry to aid the Stark Queen.  
"The common man in the capital will see no reason why they should pay another Kingdom" Yohn warned her, which outraged Sansa.  
"We fought for their very lives! Northmen died to protect the world from the Night King! Winter stopped here because of their blood!"  
"Did you forget what Northmen also did once they reached King's Landing? Once the dragon's madness caught hold of them?" Yohn's booming voice was cold, "Never did I hear such stories, a man even tried to attack your brother as he stopped him taking a young woman. The insanity of the Targaryens was infectious that day, it seems, and King's Landing will be in no mood to forgive that"  
"King's Landing is under a wolf" Sansa sniped back, "And the pack survives over everything"  
"Only when wolves consider themselves still part of the pack, and not a mystical bird" He stood, the chair scraping against the chilled stone floor, "And with that, I must return to the Eyrie. Lord Arryn will need my guidance in these turbulent times"  
Sansa had enough dignity to nod and stand to bid him farewell, "Thank you for your council, Lord Royce. Be sure to pass my good wishes to Lord Arryn, from a cousin to another"  
"Of course" He bowed his head, and left the room with a pair of Vale guards.

As soon as the door closed, Sansa sank back in her chair, a small sigh escaping her lips. Heavy was the twin-wolved crown upon her head. She had to rebuild Winterfell, clean up the corpses left by the Night King, find loyal bannermen to serve her, new Lords and Ladies to fill castles emptied by wights or treachery, and feed her people. The North was enormous, vast and cold at times, but it was her home, her blood. She couldn't shield her thinking from the cruelties though; she was lucky with Winterfell, broken as it was, had the hot springs still bubbling and giving hot water, warming the soil enough to have the weirwoods. She would need to allocate some land to plant crops, if only to feed Winter Town at least. She could call on the Vale, but after taking their Knights so many times, she had the feeling that Yohn Royce would forbid her cousin sending aid yet again. Edmure Tully could be asked, but she had little faith he would send anything or enough to achieve beyond feeding her guards.

Still. She was Queen Sansa, the Red Wolf, she would endure. She took out a piece of parchment, dipped her quill, and began to write ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's take a quick tea break to see how Westeros is doing, shall we?
> 
> Sounds like I'm being fair to Sansa, doesn't it. Nope. She will get hers. I liked her before this, but holy shit S8 just plunged her into the abyss of shittiness.


	8. Golden Fire

_She never wanted to leave ... never wanted to leave ..._

The last time that Meereen had seen a seige, it was in response to the careless abandonment of Missandei and Grey Worm's harsh, clear advice; the Masters could not be bargained with. Give them grace, they will destroy you.

Daario looked at the force from Yunaki from atop the city wall, not content to hide away in the Pyramid. Well warned in advance, he ensured the city would put all its energy in defence, whilst acquiring men more gifted in flattery and diplomacy to influence the wealthy Meereenese in their pyramids that this war would be bad for them and their income. The constant struggle was something the people tired of, the slaves had gotten a taste of freedom and were no longer content to return to the yoke of Masters, Great, Wise or otherwise. 

It seemed to have worked. Defenders lined the walls, the harbour was full of ships armed against yet another trebuchet bombardment that had devastated the city last time, and a breath was held. Meereen had the advantage in that it was the largest of the three cities of the region, but it was also formally the major hub for slave trading. Still, many former slaves opted to defend, not content with yet another attack, and more determined to put it down. They did not invoke Daenerys' name, but stubbornly kept the same message; this is the Bay of Dragons, it will not return to being Slaver's Bay.

The Second Sons also stood at the ready, and a messenger was employed between the city and the waiting invasion to convey attempts to end the standoff peacefully. The captain of the city's guard stood next to Daario, a scarred older man who had seen more than his fair share of rebellions and invasions, even before Daenerys' time in other cities.  
"Everyone is ready" He informed Daario, just as the messenger climbed the stairs in a breathless hurry.  
"The Masters are offering one final chance to surrender" He said, pausing for a moment to catch his breath and swallow his saliva, "If you open the gates, the Second Sons will be wealthy beyond measure"

Daario paused. There seemed to be only one reply to this, one that didn't require the wit of a jester or the grace of a diplomat.  
"No"  
The messenger waited for a moment to see if there would be more, nodded, and ran off to deliver the news.  
Thousands of eyes watched him take the news to the commander of the Master's army. The response was not surprising, a glance up at Daario and the city guard, before shaking his head, and ordering the march forward.  
"We could use the Queen's dragons right now" The city guard noted, drawing his sword and bellowing commands to his men.

-

She had only intended to fly over Meereen to see the city again. Nothing more. A few days of rest and recovery in Valyria drove the last of the golden poison from her blood and stomach - some of it via less savoury means - and being nourished with fresh meat from Drogon's hunts certainly helped. She set up a little shelter next to his nest, using the fallen structure of what was possibly a storehouse as a skeleton, stretching pieces of her salvaged bolts of cloth over the top for a roof and weighing them in place with stones. However, despite making a little house. she found it more comforting to simply bed down in Drogon's nest and sleep next to the gigantic head of her son, his warmth keeping her cozy and her touch keeping him relaxed.   
She missed the sensation of being on dragonback, though, of soaring through the clouds with the sun burning her cheekbones and the wind rushing through her hair. Once she was up and they had shared breakfast, she touched Drogon's nose.  
"Sōvēs?" She asked, watching for his reaction. He rumbled, moving his wing to allow her to climb up onto his back. She rarely asked, but she would not take for granted her ability to ride on the back of a dragon anymore. Not when Drogon was so precious.

She would never forget what it felt like to be on top of the world on the back of a dragon, and she never felt more at peace with herself, more _herself_. As the great leather of Drogon's wings pushed him up into the sky, she inhaled deeply the fresh air whipping past them, her hair fluttering in the wind unrestrained. Soon they were so high that all she could see was an endless blanket of sea, dotted with the remains of the Flames burning like embers in a fire, and the smudges of green lands beyond. She thought of Meereen, and Drogon immediately started to fly in that direction, needing no word from his mother.  
For a second, she thought of Daario, but just as quickly, the thought disappeared. She had said her goodbye, she had given her heart to Jon, and he had slaughtered it. She would keep it to herself for now, and allow no weakness. She just wanted to see the city, make sure it was still free, make sure the Bay was for Dragons and not Slavers. She trusted she would be kept high enough that no-one would see her on Drogon's back.  
Sometimes it really amused her to think he used to be so small. He used to ride around on her shoulder, a habit he picked up in the aftermath of the funeral pyre, where he climbed up to have a look at the shocked and awestruck Jorah, before uttering a loud and territorial screech at the bowing Dothraki. She carried around Viserys and Rhaegal, but Drogon insisted on perching higher, looking over everything. It was almost as though he, even when he was only the size of a cat, felt as though he should be up near his mother's face to protect her. Now he was so big that Daenerys' head was only barely bigger than his eye, and he was _still_ growing. Sometimes people failed to see her at all atop Drogon's back. 

Now, she would use that to her advantage. She did not want the world to know she lived just yet. She wanted peace, not yet another horde of assassins and gloryseekers to hunt her and her son down.

Her thoughts had drifted to finding Naarth, flying over to see if the Unsullied had landed there, when she noticed the mass outside Meereen's gates ...

-

Boiling sweet oil poured over the walls, scorched flesh and perfume mixing together in a disgustingly sickly-sweet mixture. Arrows rained down on the ram battering the gate. Most of the army hung back, waiting for the way to be clear and minimise good bodies being wasted on defenders. The commander watched in his silks and fine leather armour, a serf fanning him in a gold-chained collar, content at his distance. He made a note of which pyramids would be given to which Masters back home, when his attention was drawn by a black shape in the sky.   
Any thought that the shape was simply an eagle quickly faded when it sliced through the clouds towards him, descending with an arrow's fury.

_It was a dragon_

"FALL BACK! FALL BACK!" He screamed, pushing the serf out of his way as he frantically tried to wave at the generals closer to Meereen's gate, "FALL BACK!"

Daario could scarcely believe it, but it was the very dragon that the City Guard Captain had wanted. Drogon opened his mouth, the familiar deathly-rumble sounding that proceeded his fire ringing through his heart before a plume of red and orange fire sliced through the enemy ranks.  
Blood instantly boiled in the veins of the soldiers. Leather burned off, metal melted, eyeballs burst before the pressure in the skull grew too much and the skull messily exploded. Many in the absolute centre of the fire immediately turned to ash, scattered by the frantic feet of men alight and desperately trying to put themselves out. The slave with the golden chain pulled himself free, and made a run for it, as other soldiers turned their pikes, spears and arrows on Drogon, but the dragon remained very much out of reach.  
He soared in a circle, checking the harbour for enemy ships but finding none except defensive fleets bearing black sails adored with a red dragon's head, a broken manicule in it's mouth. He looped round again, attacking the army for a second time, incinerating those who hadn't already died or fled.

The defence of Meereen could do nothing except watch, stunned. The victory was near-bloodless for them, and the defenders jeered as the final enemy fled. Drogon flew over the Great Pyramid, roaring in victory, before disappearing just as quickly as he had come.

"Victory, sir" One of the Second Sons addressed Daario, who was still staring at Drogon's fading shape, "Should everyone stand down"  
"... yes, everyone to stand down" His voice distracted.  
"Was that the Queen's dragon?"  
"Of course it was"  
"He must be protecting the city"  
"He must" Daario agreed. But for a moment, just for a moment, he could swear he saw a figure with lond blonde hair on the back of the great black dragon as he rained down fire on the enemies of his mother's city ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I have Dany say Sōvēs and not Valahd, as she did in the Fighting Pit in Meereen? Because when I double-checked that, it seems that Valahd is Dothraki for 'horizon', whereas Sōvēs is Valyrian for 'fly'. It was changed on-set due to crossed wires and best takes, plus dubbing choices.
> 
> Here's some fire and blood. Next chapter, Jon and Sansa reunite, because I just NEED a scene of it! No Jonsa here, just angst!


	9. Red and White

"Another offer of marriage, your Grace"  
"Add it to the list" Sansa was in no mood to entertain it, reading instead a list of repairs needed for Winterfell, and the expected cost. There was the temptation to sell the remaining dragonglass weaponry for it, but since the Iron Islands did not agree to stop raiding the coast when the Six Kingdoms were Seven - only agreeing with Daenerys in exchange for independence - the weaponry had some use yet. She would need to try and reach out to Queen Yara Greyjoy for a treaty, if the last Greyjoy would even speak to her. The scene in the Dragonpit and sparing of Jon left her with a bitter taste in her mouth, and the death of Theon was likely to make it more potent.

"Your Grace, you really must start thinking of marriage"  
"For what reason" Sansa's tone was dark, and it was an open challenge, one that asked by the Queen should rush to wed when a King had a grace period. After two disastrous marriages, she was in no mood for a third, especially not when the North could not afford a Royal wedding.  
"You must think of heirs. Who will take the Throne of Winterfell when you are gone?"  
"Whomever I decide" She hoped that would settle the matter, but the Maester was determined to press it home.  
"Your brother, his Grace King Brandon, has said he will have no heirs. As his sister, that makes you his heir, and as such, that would leave two thrones up for taking. An heir would settle the matter neatly"  
"I will decide once I am finished rebuilding the North" Her voice was cold, putting down a sheet of parchment and picking up another, making notes in the margins with her thoughts and corrections, the wolf crown on her head casting a deep shadow across her brow.  
"May I suggest a marriage with Lord Arryn of the Vale"  
Sansa slowly looked up at the Maester, her Tully blue eyes boring into him.  
"Robin is my cousin" Blood alone, she was repulsed, but the revulsion may have more to do with the fact he had been a sickly, demanding, spoilt, sheltered boy when she lived in the Eyrie. His crooked teeth rotten from the fetid breastmilk of her indulgent, paranoid Aunt Lysa, his features ghoulish ... True, he had matured since then, becoming more calm and composed, but she didn't trust their brief meeting in the Dragonpit as a true show of character. In any case, that would mean Robin would have to move to Winterfell, or she would be expected to move to the Eyrie, and both thoughts disgusted her.  
"Cousins matter not in nobility" The Maester was bemused by her reaction, "Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna were cousins, Targaryens married even closer. A marriage with the Vale would be a good allegiance, further beyond family ties"  
"Absolutely not" Sansa left no room for arguing.  
"Then Jon Snow?" If she would not accept Robin, admittedly a poor personality match, then someone with older blood may suffice. Sansa's blood ran cold.

"Jon is my _brother_ "  
"Jon is your cousin, his father is-"  
"He is my brother!" Sansa snapped, with a temper she had not displayed in a long time. She was used to wearing a cold, distant mask in dealing with politics, but this outraged her so much it caused a surge of anger as she stood, "Jon Snow is my brother, he is the blood of Ned Stark, and I will hear absolutely no denial of his place in my family!"  
The Maester held up his hands in apology, shocked at Sansa's outburst.  
"F-Forgive me, your Grace, I just ..."  
Sansa sighed, collecting herself, and sat back in her chair with a graceful poise more befitting a Queen.  
"Despite our differences, and where we have wandered in the world, I have two brothers and a sister. Jon, Bran, Arya. Snow or Stark, they are my blood. Eddard Stark was our father, he will always be our father. I will decide whom to marry when I choose, and anyone bringing up the matter when unbidden will be punished. Do I make myself clear?"  
"Yes, your Grace ..."  
"Good. Take these papers and deliver them to the stonemasons" She handed the sheaves of parchment, her tone brisk, "And prepare a raven for Castle Black. They have asked for provisions, and I must reply"  
"At once, your Grace"

-

"She wants to speak to Jon?"  
The Night's Watch, despite not really watching out for much, still worked in the dark of the night. A place of refuge for the poor, the bastards, and the lowlife that had committed terrible crimes that would be erased if they joined the black, it was a dumping ground for many years for the waste of society. It had better days closer to the present, with decisive leadership, but it was adrift once more as the men had to decide a hierarchy, find resources, and elect a 1,000th Lord Commander. The obvious choice would have been Jon Snow, the 998th Commander, but he had disappeared with the Wildlings to resettle them Beyond The Wall. Even if he were to be elected, it was possible he would be asked to step down, as his previous crime and heritage meant that giving him command was asking for political trouble.  
The Acting Lord Commander, a man named Corvin Bracke, was bemused at the raven sent to him. It was from Queen Sansa Stark, stating she wanted to pay a visit to Castle Black, and explicitly wanted to speak to her brother, Jon. This ... was going to be a tall order.  
"That's what it says" The new Maester, Dorlo, nodded, "Should I send a reply?"  
"No, first we need to find Jon, then we can invite her up. Hope she brings us soup; if I have to eat one more grass pie, I'll shit in the cook's cauldron"  
The guard outside the room made an odd noise as he tried to stifle his snickering.

-

The arrival of the Queen was a sedate affair. Preceded by bannermen carrying the Stark sigil, she arrived on horseback and not in a carriage, preferring to share the open air with her men. The skeleton staff of Castle Black lined up to meet her, calling back in her mind to the time that King Robert Baratheon arrived at Winterfell, bringing Queen Cersei and the curse of the Lannisters with them.  
She shivered at the memory.  
The only person she didn't see was Jon, and she frowned at this. Had they not managed to reach him? As soon as the procession stopped and her horse's reigns taken by an attendant, she approached the Acting Lord Commander.  
"Your Grace" He bowed his head politely. She offered a thin smile.  
"Lord Bracke" She nodded, "I trust you are well?"  
"As well as can be, your Grace" He gave a smile at his 'joke', "Did your journey go well"  
"Very" She lost patience with the pleasantries already, "Is Jon here?"  
A pause. She rose her brow just a tiny bit, but got the reply she wanted.  
"Yes, it took a while, but .... yeah. We found him"  
"Good. I want to meet him right now. We have brought ale"  
There was a wave of happiness that ran through Castle Black's men at the mention of ale, and they liked this visit more already.

-

The last time the Stark siblings saw each other, it was before Jon's exile and Sansa's coronation. She had not thought to invite him, and part of her didn't want the former King in the North there to steal her shine and his crime to distract from the crown being placed upon her red brow. She was almost startled by how different he looked and felt, eventhough it had only been a short time since they were together. His hair was down, looking more like the Jon she knew from her childhood, and he looked like the weight of the world had been taken off him. But at the same time, there was an air that was hard to pin down. Perhaps the influence of the Wildlings.  
"Your Grace" His husky voice greeted her, bowing his head. She smiled, a free and easy smile, her gaze dipping for a moment before looking at him again.  
"Just Sansa" She gently corrected. She never addressed him as 'your Grace' when he was King, she didn't want the title applied to her without reciprocation.  
"Just Sansa, then" His tone amused. They moved towards each other in a hug, her arms disappearing in the massive fur on his shoulders. The crown on her head suddenly felt a lot heavier; his cheek pressed it hard against her temple, a lupine barrier between them. 

Once the hug was broken, they sat on either side of a table, a tankard placed in front of them both and some ale poured inside. Jon looked surprised to see it.  
"We had some left?" Referring to Winterfell's stores. She liked how easily he referred to things from Winterfell as theirs. No matter how far the wolves wander, they always know their den.  
"Hidden away from your Giantsbane friend" A wry smile, "His horn was endless"  
"Aye, it is" Jon laughed, taking a swig and almost wincing at the taste, "Been a while since I had a taste"  
"Don't imagine there's much ale beyond the wall" Sansa mused, taking a sip of her own as the door closed softly, leaving the siblings talked.

An uneasy pause. Sansa cradled her tankard between her hands, looking at the black, glassy surface of the air reflecting the candlelight burning on the walls.  
"Jon-"  
"Why are you here"  
She looked up, startled by his bluntness. His brown eyes, so soulful and so sad, stared at her.  
"You didn't just come up to visit. Why are you here?"  
Sansa drew in a breath.  
"I came up to see how the Night's Watch are doing. Is it a crime to see how my brother is doing?"  
"No, not a crime" He conceded, "I just thought the North washed their hands of me"  
"You're a Stark of Winterfell, the North will never forget you. They will never forget the King that fought for the dawn" Sansa sounded surprised. Did Jon think they'd abandoned him.  
"..." Jon said nothing, looking down, but it was Sansa's turn to ask questions.  
"Jon, do you think we've just forgotten you?"  
He shook his head, but she knew he was onto something. She knew he always felt like the outsider in their family, shouldering the burden of Eddard Stark's infidelity, one that didn't even exist. She knew her mother had been cruel, very cruel, but had not really thought about it growing up.  
She was certainly thinking about it now.  
"You were a King. Like Robb before you. King Robb, King Jon, now me. You keep saying you're a Snow, you're not. You're a Stark. You are every inch Father's son"  
Another pause from Jon, and he looked at her.  
"What am I to you?"  
"You're my brother" Sansa said firmly, her chin held high as she had said to the Maester in Winterfell, "You are Jon Snow, brother of Robb, brother of Arya, brother of Brandon, brother of Rickon, brother to _me_ "  
"Then why did you tell Tyrion what I was?"

That hit her like a bolt from a crossbow. Her heart caught in her mouth, and she had to think how to word her thoughts.  
"I-"  
"Was it because you hated Dany?" Jon was staring right through her now, a gaze she didn't really know from him, and distinctly didn't like, "She told me you asked about a free North. She was trying to be nice"  
"She was _trying_ to lull me into being an obedient servant" Sansa narrowed her eyes, "You don't know how the power-hungry work, Jon. I do"  
"Even if you hated her, why did you tell Tyrion that Father wasn't ... Why did you tell him Rhaegar was my father?" Jon wouldn't let this go. It was something he had thought about, chewed over, tried to think of a good reason. _Ask me in 10 years_ Tyrion told him. No. He wanted to know _now_.  
"Because you were the rightful heir to the throne, not her" Sansa's jaw was firm, "You would have been a great King"  
"The King you constantly told was doing the wrong thing, the King who _never wanted it!_ " Jon snapped, slamming his tankard on the table, "Gods, Sansa, I never wanted to be King! I had to fight for the dawn, I had treat for dragonglass! I bent the knee after she saved my life!"  
"You fell in love with her!"  
"What does that have to do with anything?!" He demanded, and Sansa took a slow breath.  
"I ... I did it to make sure she wouldn't be Queen. That we wouldn't be ruled by a cruel tyrant"  
"Dany was _not_ a cruel tyrant. Did you speak to her handmaiden? She freed slaves in Essos"  
"By burning them alive" She snarked, but Jon would not be put off.  
"How is that justice any better or worse than what we do. Sansa, I thought you wanted what was best for the family. You begged, you _pleaded_ , we had to save Rickon. We had to retake Winterfell. But ever since we got it back, you did nothing but belittle me, challange me"

"I did that to protect you from Baelish" This truth flowed freely from Sansa, and she leaned forward, taking Jon's hand as she did on the battlements of Winterfell after a disagreement in the Great Hall, "Baelish thrives on chaos. If he thinks we are arguing, he does not think you are a threat. I had to work _hard_ to pretend that I was his puppet, his little jester, his _Aunt Lysa_ to keep you safe. I did that for you, for Arya!"  
Jon exhaled through his nose. That ... that did make sense. He could see how she always made up with him in private, how she panicked when he left outside where she could watch. That made sense.  
What did not make sense was her loose lips.  
"And telling Tyrion who my father was?"  
"To stop a tyrant"  
"And put me in danger"  
"..." Sansa had no answer to that, so Jon pressed home.  
"You did that to stop Daenerys, you did that to take the North out of the Kingdoms. You didn't expect Bran, aye, but you were happy to put me at risk. You thought I would be King, and you could just ask me to let the North go back to Stark Kings. Aye, I would have done that, but I told you time and time and time again, _I don't want the crown_. I took the King in the North's crown to fight the dawn, because I was asked, and I had a duty to my people. Ever since you told Tyrion, people have been on at me; be the King, you're the heir, you're the heir. What about what I want, Sansa? When does anyone give a shit about what I want?"

"You know what I wanted? To fight the Night King, to be free Beyond the Wall, with the woman I loved. But I ended up murdering her, Sansa. I _murdered_ the woman I love. All because you wanted the North. You keep saying I'm your brother; what kind of sister throws her brother off a cliff like that? You made me the target of all of Westeros"  
He stood up sharply, resting his hand on the head of Longclaw, the garnet eyes glimmering underneath his fingerips. The scar over his eye seemed more prominent than usual, and Sansa was close to defending herself in anger, but Jon cut her off.  
"I don't want to see you again, Sansa. I want no part of it. Call me your brother all you like. You're not my sister anymore"  
"... Jon" Sansa stood as Jon stormed past her, opening the door and leaving with his black cloak trailing in the wind. The guards outside seemed surprised, and peered in to look at Sansa.  
"Is everything alright, your Grace?"  
"..." She feigned a smile, fluttering her lashes and acting casual as she fought down tears.  
"Everything is fine. Just a little family disagreement"  
"Alright" The guard closed the door again. Sansa sank back in her chair, put her hand to her mouth, and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Jonsa here!
> 
> For those asking; no, I don't plan to have Dany return to Meereen, nor meet Daario again. It was made pretty clear in S6 that she had said goodbye to him, and she isn't open to letting anyone into her heart at the moment. This is a pro-Jonaerys fic, so never say never on Jon and Dany meeting again!
> 
> For all Sansa's faults, I refuse to let go the fact she has consistently named him her brother, and I feel ROBBED of the scene where he revealed his heritage. The problem is trying to knit that with S8's shenanigans, so here goes.


	10. Seven Children

Where was Drogon taking her?

Their flight back to Meereen was taken with the hint of smoke in the air from the charred remains of the Masters. The moment she saw an army, with the sigil of Yunkai on their shields, she decided to send a clear message. She may be 'dead', but her son would still come back to protect Meereen until it could stand on its own two feet.

She expected Drogon to simply fly back to Valyria, perhaps stop somewhere to hunt a meal for later, but instead he flew past their nest and further inland. She wasn't complaining, merely bemused, and watched the land unfold before her. There were rumours that the very-most capital, the city that gave the Freehold it's name and became a shorthand in a way for the entire empire, had survived and was merely buried in ash and magma. Daenerys saw a few towers still standing, blackened sticks in a grey land, but it was clear that most of it had fallen.  
She guided Drogon down, landing on a mostly-sturdy ruin, and slid down his wing to land on the soil that her ancestors would have walked upon. She could only imagine the riches that were once here ... or may still be here. People had tried to resettle, Viserys had been irritated and offended at 'trespassers on his homeland, but all attempts had ended badly. Looters and pirates didn't come in this far, seemingly dying before reaching it, and everything was so smothered in soot it was hard to make out what was worth taking.

It pained her to see some skeletons remaining. Humans half-buried in broken masonry and long-eroded timbers, their silks eaten away with time. Iron-rich dragonbones, black and glossy, made her stomach churn as she imagined their last moments. In pain, in terror, burning and smothered with ash, pelted with pyroclastic blasts ... Unable to see, unable to breathe ...  
Drogon snorted, the dust kicked up by his flight irritating his nose. Daenerys found her breathing odd as well; this was no place to live, no matter how much she might like to one day set a home here. It would need many hands to help, it would need a thousand rains to wash away the damage of the Flames, and she would need to have all the bones of Valyria's dragons laid to rest.  
Still, there were things to see, and she spent a few hours wandering in and out the ruins as Drogon entertained himself peering into the towers above them, almost like a bird looking in a tree-stump for some snacks. For all he seemed to others to just be a beast that devoured and terrorised, Daenerys knew there was a sharp mind in his great, horned skull, and this was all new for him. He didn't think to venture this far without his mother, sure that she would know what this all was better than him.

A large structure fascinated her, dome-shaped at one point, but a large hole had been smashed into the roof presumably by an explosion, and the rest had fallen due to the elements. It almost looked like a stable, but its odd shape told her otherwise. Then she realised.

This was a Dragonpit.

Stunned, she looked at the walls, seeing rich mosaics of dragons, eggs, fire, children with little hatchlings, praise for Valyria, chasing borders with sheep as a reference to Valyrian heritage as shepherds. There were still scratches in the dirt from dragonclaws, smaller than Drogon but still large. Large circular depressions indicated nests, the edges littered with bones from meals, ranging from the size of fish for hatchlings, to the size of horses for adults.  
Most of the pits seemed empty, but her curiosity was now at an all-time high, carefully, she examined each pit, until she came to one that seemed to have only sheep bones around it. It seemed less shallow than the others, and Daenerys knelt to begin brushing away the layers of ash and soot that coated it and everything else in the pit.

Her hand brushed over something. Her heart leapt into her throat, her stomach clenched, and she began to dig more urgently, throwing up clouds of soot and blackening her hands and forearms. The inside of her nose became encrusted with thick, black phlegm as her body tried its hardest to keep the volcanic dust out of her lungs, but she was intent on containing.  
Before her, before the Mother of Dragons, was a clutch of seven eggs.

She breathed, staring wide-eyed at the grey eggs, each covered in rough scales and still frozen in time. Cold to the touch, they had not seen the light of day for over four hundred years ...  
Drogon came to join her, noisily landing on the edge of the caved in roof, peering down at his mother and making a glutteral noise of curiosity.  
"Drogon" She whispered as the head of her son craned down to examine what she had found, "You will be alone no more ..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, but I could NOT RESIST!
> 
> Seven for now. Will they hatch? Do I have another surprise? Wait and see ...


	11. Mhysa

Carrying seven precious dragon eggs was not easy when one had a method to do so, such as a basket or a helper. To do it alone, with petrified eggs, and riding on dragonback was something else altogether.  
Daenerys didn't doubt she made for a comical sight. She had the eggs carefully stuffed down her tunic, her belt tightened to prevent them tumbling out of the bottom, and giving her the impression that she had gained a monstrous - and rather lumpy - amount of weight, and her breasts were one large scaly rock each.

The eggs made clicking sounds as the rubbed and knocked against each other, and she winced with each sound. While they were not delicate like the eggs of a chicken, they were still precious, and it took her a good few moments to climb Drogon's wing and onto his back with the added weight and need to be gentle. Huffing as she made it to the top, she held onto a spine as custom with one hand, but the other went around her middle, keeping the eggs close to her body and steadying them. She felt rather like a smuggler, and could only imagine the price these eggs would have fetched her if she chose to sell them. _Sell all three_ , Jorah once said of the eggs that became Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion, _And you will be a wealthy woman for the rest of your life_.

She was never more glad that she refused to do so. It did not even cross her mind, even at her lowest point, to do so. They were a gift to her, a call to her heritage, and she could constantly feel the need to have the eggs close. Even when she lost Rhaego, even when stricken with fever and weak from bloodloss and the stillbirth, she needed her eggs. She supposed she felt the life inside, even if she didn't know it, and she felt the same about these eggs. Even if they proved unable to hatch, or infertile, she would look after them.

As Drogon took off, she tried not to think about the fate of the mother of these eggs. How she probably died in the Doom, died in pain and terror, leaving behind her precious clutch ... Daenerys wondered what she would have made of her, a small woman who carried the precious last Targaryen blood in her veins, and of her son Drogon. Would she accept her? Allow her near her eggs?  
 _It doesn't matter_ Daenerys told herself, _I will be their mother now_.  
Drogon's reaction was something she did wonder. Did larger dragons eat the smaller? She knew there once was a dragon called The Cannibal who would make meals of eggs and hatchlings, and other dragons ate their kin closer to their own size. She hoped, she pleaded, that Drogon would not try and eat these hatchlings, should they come out. The only other hatchlings he had met were Rhaegal and Viserion, and while the three could disagree, they only fought a true battle when Viserion had been ridden by the Night King, and was not his true self any longer.  
She would not let such a thing happen to these children, she vowed, her brow furrowing in determination. She would let these dragons take flight and find their own way, their own path, but ensure they would not be enslaved by the ambitious, bloody men looking for glory. The world deserved dragons, the world deserved its magic. Valyria would be their home once more, and it would be a safe home she would give them.

It was somewhat strange being the person in the world with the most experience with dragons. Maesters may have their books and records, but they did not have the practise, and sometimes that was more valuable. As Drogon landed on their nest site, Daenerys quickly placed her precious charges within his nest to keep them protected for now. She would need to dig them their own bed, and one that would be fit for the clutch to warm them back to life.  
When she received her three eggs, they had been cold and hard as stone, and she had tried placing them in a brazier to hatch them at one point, convinced they needed help to come back from stone. She didn't know how long they had been like that, but she guessed that these eggs had been dormant for much longer, and smothered in ash from the Doom to make them even colder.  
She set about the ruins, looking for something to contain the eggs. A vast brazier was a chance and lucky find, the bronze tarnished with time but the edge decorated with dancing dragons and flickering flames. Actually moving it back to her little home was harder, and she resorted to taking the legs off and rolling it on its side like a cartwheel. Drogon seemed to think this was amusing, judging by the chuffing noises he was making, but he was also guarding the eggs so his amusement was allowed to go unchallenged.

Exhausted already, she took a moment to rest, before starting to dig a depression in the earth to sit the brazier in. Once upon a time, this firepit would have warmed the banquet hall of a great dragonlord. Now it would be a cradle to a new lineage of dragons. The warm earth felt good under her nails as she scraped the grass and soil away, digging just enough for the brazier to sit inside with the edge flush to the topsoil. The earth she had pulled out she placed a layer at the bottom of the brass bowl, and started to think how she would keep this warm.  
She lacked coals. But she did have a mix of volcanic rocks and bracken, and set about filling the new cradle with it. She turned to Drogon once it was filled to her satisfaction.  
" _Dracarys_ " She asked, pointing to the braizer.  
Drogon hesitated, waiting for Daenerys to walk away a good distance, and breathed a small plume of fire at the brazier. Even that, considering his size, was a large outburst, and Daenerys had to wait until the grass had stopped smoking before she could come near the brazier, watching the fire settle and smoke out, leaving embers that would nourish the eggs.  
One by one, they were placed inside. Still ashen, the colours were hard to see, and she tried her best to dust them off before placing them inside. The sight of the clutch made her heart soar, and she smiled at Drogon.  
"One day, they will hatch. Will you help me take care of them?"  
Drogon trilled in affirmative, but to her surprise, he reached over with his head and butted her hip with his nose. Once, twice, his eyes staring at her. She grasped what he was trying to say.  
"You're still my son" She put her hands on either side of his muzzle and kissed his nose gently, "I won't forget you, and they cannot take all my attention from you"  
He rumbled, satisfied with his mother's answer ...

-

"The Iron Bank is most insistent that the debt be paid"  
Tyrion sat at the head of the Small Council, having persuaded King Bran to attend the meeting and stay for more than a few minutes. As usual, the King simply looked at him with a distant stare, and Tyrion was growing increasingly frusrtated with it. Not help was the casual shrug from Bronn, the Master of Coin.  
"That was Cersei's debt, not ours"  
"IT IS ours; the Crown's debt passes, no matter who wears the Crown" Tyrion spelt it out to him, to which Bronn still appeared indifferent.  
"Just pay then with the gold your family seems to shit out whenever it wants something done"  
"There is no gold in Casterly Rock" Tyrion spelt it out bluntly, "The Golden Company was not cheap. Highgarden was sacked for gold by Jaime to pay the Iron Bank and allow Cersei to get the Golden Company"  
"I was there" Bronn reminded him, savouring for a moment the time he managed to take down a dragon with a bolt, before continuing, "We'll find the money"  
" _How_ " Tyrion pressed.  
"Who else is the bank going to put forward for the Throne?" Bronn countered, "It's not like you've got someone else to challenge the King"  
"The Iron Bank has other ways" Tyrion stated darkly, "We lost the North and all their taxes, and the Queen in the North constantly asks for repatriations for the damage Winterfell suffered in the fight against the dead. King's Landing still needs extensive repairs. Highgarden has no money. The Stormlands are only just getting on their feet. The Iron Islands fully intends to start reaving again. _We have no gold_ "  
"We are working on trade" Davos noted, his hands clasped on the table, his gaze severe and lowered as always, "The ships are being built, traders are interested in docking again, now that peace has come back"  
That was a piece of good news. Davos always had a way of calming a room, and Tyrion was never more grateful for it.  
"Forgive me, my Lords" Tyrion sat back in his chair, the stress of being Hand never more great, even when his psychopathic nephew blighted the throne, "But we are in dire times"  
"We'll make it through" Samwell Tarley, the Archmaester, said in an optimistic tone, "The Crown has been through worse; I'ver read about-"  
"We need to focus on NOW" Tyrion cut him off, his temper worsening. All he wanted was Bran to do something, _anything_ , but he was content to see the past and future, and let his council do as they must. While it was a good thing he didn't want Tourneys like Robert, it was also a bad thing he did not at least want to make a public appearance to restore good faith and cheer to the people like Tommen. Tyrion truly carried the realm on his shoulders.

"... What news is there from the East" Tyrion changed the subject, wanting to speak about distant lands that were not so deeply embedded in the troubles here.  
"Braavos wants to trade, as does the Bay of Dragons" Davos informed him, "I have heard reports from Meereen that there was an attempt to return it to slavery, but the army was defeated" He paused, side-eyeing Bran, "They were defended by Daenerys' dragon"  
Bran paused, raising his head, nodding, "Yes" His voice distant, "I saw after the battle"  
Tyrion raised an eyebrow at him.  
"You didn't think to tell the Council?"  
"The dragon is still out of sight" Bran didn't understand how he wasn't able to follow the beast, "The defenders of the city said that he appeared from nowhere, destroyed the attacking army, then flew off"  
"Does he live at Meereen?"  
"No"  
That was something. Drogon was wild, and not encamped in a city, so he was less of a threat.  
"Let Meereen know we are welcome to do trade" Tyrion sighed, tossing a parchment at Davos for him to peruse in his own time, "This meeting is at an end"  
Just as everyone moved to leave their seats, and Ser Payne moved to wheel the King away, Tyrion looked at Bran.  
"I would like to speak to the King alone"  
An exchange of glances, but everyone obeyed. Bran and Tyrion found themselves with each other, and the silent attendance of Pod, whose presence was largely ignored.

"Your Grace" Tyrion bowed his head, but he kept eye contact with the King, "If I may, I'm not sure you understand the gravity of our financial troubles"  
Bran said nothing, waiting for Tyrion to continue.  
"Money, the lack of it, ruins otherwise great Kings. Raise taxes, the people rebel. Have none to buy grain, they starve. Spend what you don't have, anarchy reigns. We need leadership to decide our actions"  
"That is why I trust you. My Hand of the King" Bran stated, frustrating Tyrion further.  
"If you have _any wisdom_ on how to make more gold, that would be much appreciated" Tyrion's tone increasingly prickly as he tried to maintain his air of respect, which was fast eroding. Bran looked off to his right, certainty in his voice.  
"There are Dragons in our future. Many dragons, raining from the sky. Dragons from the East, gold, silver, bronze"  
"You mean-"  
"Trade from the East" Bran looked back to Tyrion, who seemed visibly relieved.  
"Ah. Forgive me, your Grace, I thought you meant-"  
"There will be a gift from the North. What kind of gift, I don't know. Who will receive it, I don't know. It will be precious, and wondrous. I have tried to see the vision again and again, but it is clouded"  
"When ... will it come?"  
"Months from now"  
Tyrion never did truly grasp Greensight, but he hoped it was true. Months was a short time, and it would be most welcome right now.  
"And of the black dragon that roams in the East?"  
"He will eat, but he will sleep for a long time" Bran sounded more bemused by this part, "He disappears from sight for a long time, roaming wild"  
"Where did he take ..." Tyrion almost couldn't say whom, but he didn't need to spell it out anyway.  
"I don't know" Bran didn't sound concerned, "I have not seen a body"  
Tyrion wondered for a morbid moment if Drogon possibly _ate_ his mother in a fit of hunger. He decided not to think about it.  
"Very well ... Thank you, your Grace" Tyrion bowed, Ser Payne coming up behind the King's chair to take him away.

As soon as the King left, Tyrion sank back into his chair, taking a goblet of wine and downing a hearty swig. The pin on his tunic felt very sharp, the point stabbing his breast to remind him of his duty. Sighing, he picked up a quill, and started to answer the voluminous correspondence on his desk ...

-

Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys examined the dragon eggs, as she had done for many weeks now every morning. They were growing warm, which pleased her. The embers were prodded to keep them burning, fed fresh dry twigs and grass that she plucked from the ground and hung up to dry in the air. Drogon kept them both fed, though he liked to spend his mornings grooming and stretching his wings. She took it as a sign she should bathe as well; she felt odd and sickly lately, which she put down to obsessively watching over the eggs, and perhaps some of the golden poison still worming its way out of her system.  
It had been many, many days since she returned to life, she mused as she walked to the river, shrugging off her tunic and breeches and sliding into the water. Since then, she had defended Meereen and found seven dragon eggs. Remarkable, even for her progress from forgotten, destitute Princess to Queen of Meereen and fighter for the Dawn before.   
She had only just started to wash her arms when she looked down and paused. Her nipples seemed oddly puffy, and she was shocked to see milk seeping from the tips.  
Arching back slightly, she looked at her stomach, and beheld an oval-shaped bulge, like she had swallowed a melon whole. Her heart skipped a beat, and she could scarcely believe it. True, she had not bled since she had come back from death, but she simply assumed stress or her resurrection was the cause. 

Still, how could she miss that she was ... pregnant?

She sat in the cold water, stunned beyond measure, placing a hand on the swell in her belly. It had been a long time since she felt a pregnancy, her first child taken by a scheming and malicious witch. She knew she was pregnant when a handmaiden pointed out the changes in her breasts, but she did not have a bump so it came as a surprise. This ... was she just so taken with the eggs that she hadn't noticed? But ... the last time she had lain with a man, it was Jon, and that was some time ago. They stopped sharing a bed by his wishes, which broke her heart, having only the occasional kiss afterwards, when he wasn't repelled by the realisation they shared blood.  
Jon ... Tears started to fall as she contemplated what this all meant. She only could assume her death had stopped the baby's development, had stopped her becoming pregnant. Now she was alive, she was only just showing, a considerable delay that would work in the infant's favour.

She, Daenerys Targaryen, would have another child.

And Jon Snow would be the father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was promised a boatbaby, damnit, I will not be denied.


	12. Old Friends

Daenerys was aware of how little she knew. 

Where was Jon? Where was the father of her child? Was he dead, executed for killing her? Who ruled Westeros? Did anyone rule Westeros? What became of the Unsullied, the Dothraki? Was Jon now King? Was Sansa Queen?  
There were so many questions, and she had no answers. Her contact with the wider world was limited ... She could go back to Meereen and get all the answers she wanted, but that opened up the city to potential attack from people who wanted her dead yet again. She still wanted to mostly keep her resurrection a secret, now more than ever, considering her pregnancy.

Her visible success in the world and distinctive looks now became a liability. Drogon could take her anywhere, that was true, but she didn't want him exposed to risk either. He was the last dragon, until her seven eggs hatched - if they hatched - and there was no telling if they would. They were warm, a good sign, but who knows how long it would take for them to emerge, or if she needed to spill more blood in order to do so.  
The Dothraki would know what happened immediately after her death, but they would have an incentive to spread the news of her rebirth. The Unsullied were the only people she could wholly trust, but she didn't know if they were still in Westeros.  
And she'd sooner slit her own throat than go back there so soon.

She frowned, her hand on the small swell of her belly, as she pondered about what to do. She'd give almost anything for a maester right now who could tell her, but also be trusted to keep his mouth shut and his ravens grounded. Without going to Meereen or King's Landing, she could only guess who would still have her best interests at heart.  
Yara Greyjoy, did she survive? It was not known, and if she did, did she lead the Iron Islands? But, again, that would merit going to Westeros. Same with Gendry Baratheon, legitimised by Daenerys at the Feast of Winterfell. While she had no doubt he would have survived King's Landing, it would only take one malicious hand or whomever the new ruler was to remove his legitimisation, call Daenerys a false Queen, and render him a bastard again.

_Daggers and spears at every turn, the person I truely need is Grey Worm_

The Commander of the Unsullied was, perhaps, one of the final people in her circle that did not betray her in any way, along with Missendai. She shook her head to get rid of the mental image of Missendai's execution out of her mind's eye. She would never forget Grey Worm's reaction either ... He told her afterwards about his plans with his beloved. To go back to Naath, and live together. After her death, he would still go to Naath, take her body back to the warm beaches of her homeland and lay her to rest. She was sad, but gave him permission to retire to Naath after her coronation if he wished.  
She could only guess that he carried through with that plan.  
Seeing no other option, she waited until nightfall, climbed onto Drogon's back, and set a course for Naath ...

-

Two things that Naath are famed for, it's beauty and it's butterflies, were both visible during the day. At night, Daenerys could only see the beauty, the white sands shimmering a light blue under the full moon, glowing lanterns in the villages below, the sea gently lapping the sides of the boats in a harbour. She realised it was a Westerosi ship, and the hope that the Unsullied and Grey Worm had come here was realised.  
She set Drogon to allow her down on a beach some distance away, his black scales doing well in the darkness, and her sandles making gentle crunching noises as she walked towards the village. She didn't know what reception that she, an obvious outsider, would get. She walked towards one of the larger buildings, not wishing to disturb and distress an everyday family, and listened carefully to the chatter inside. Familiar voices, ones she did not easily recall the name of, filled her ears and she knew she had made the right choice.  
Adjusting the covering around her head to hide her platinum blonde hair, she knocked on the door.  
A hush. Someone got to their feet, and the door opened only a crack, a pair of golden eyes peering at her from within. This was not an Unsullied, but Daenerys was not put off.  
"I am looking for Grey Worm" She tried in Common Tongue, not knowing which language she would encounter, "IS he here?"  
The person behind the door hesitated, then spoke over their shoulder to someone else in the room. Quickly, another set of feet approached, and the door opened wider.  
Daenerys looked directly at the face of the man who had lead her armies to victory all over Slavers Bay and Westeros.

"... _Nya dare_?" He breathed, his expression shocked, even if his eyes were as severe as always.  
" _Kessa, Torgo Nudho, issa raqiros_ " She smiled, her own eyes bright. He did not look as though he truly believed it to be her, so she pulled back her head covering, showing her face properly in the light of the stars.  
"You ... you were dead" Grey Worm was cautious that this was all a trick, as he was right to be. She nodded.  
"I was. Drogon breathed life back into me. It seems so strange, I know. Did ... you bring her home?"  
This seemed to set Grey Worm more at ease, despite the grim question.  
"Yes ... she is at peace, by the beach, as she wanted"  
Daenerys nodded, "May we talk? I won't come in if you feel uncomfortable. We can talk by the sea, with other Unsullied. I want to see some again"  
It was a gamble, but she trusted the Unsullied over everyone else. He slowly nodded, addressing some people over his shoulder, before coming out and closing the door behind him.  
"Thank you" Her voice quiet, "I did not want to shock others"  
"How are you alive again, Khaleesi?" Grey Worm cut quick to the reason she was here, "You were killed, killed by Jon Snow"  
"Yes ..." Her gaze far off as she walked with him, "A dagger to the heart, in more ways than one. The dagger is still in my flesh. Drogon took me to Old Valyria, the place my family is from. He breathed life into me, brought me back with dragonfire ..."  
Grey Worm looked sceptical, and she couldn't say she blamed him. She stopped on the shore, taking a seat on the sands, and gesturing for him to join her.  
It was almost odd, not seeing him in an Unsullied uniform. He was wearing what she guessed as typical Naath clothing, and he suited it. His dagger was still attached to his hip, however, ready to defend the island from slavers.  
"Are all the Unsullied here?"  
Grey Worm nodded, "We defend Naath for any slavers that remain. Sometimes ships come, we send them away. Others come for trade, which we make sure that people trade fairly"  
"That's good" She paused, "And ... Westeros?"  
He drew a breath.  
"Jon Snow's brother, Brandon the Raven, he is King now"  
"... Bran?" Daenerys blinked, stunned. Of all the people in the world, Bran the Three-Eyed Raven was now King?, "Really?"  
"Yes. After Jon Snow ... killed you, Drogon destroyed the throne. We wanted justice, the Unsullied. the Greyjoy, Gendry the Blacksmith. A meeting took place in the Dragonpit. They refused justice, Jon Snow was sent back to the Wall. They chose Brandon as King. Sansa Stark has the North, she is Queen there"  
Daenerys narrowed her eyes. She guessed as much, it seemed that part was Sansa's goal all along, but the Throne's new holder was still a shock.  
"Why to the Wall? What does the Night Watch have to watch for?"  
Grey Worm looked down at the sand, his face dark, still angry at not being allowed to dispense justice in the name of his fallen Queen.  
"I do not know. All they said was that the lost and poor need somewhere to go"  
"..." Daenerys supposed, but it was a good way to get Jon out of the way of Sansa's ambitions as well as the Iron Throne.

Jon on the Wall. Sansa in Winterfell. Bran in King's Landing. Truly, Westeros would not be a place for her. But she still needed to tell Jon she was pregnant somehow, some way that did not put herself, Drogon, the Unsullied or her child in danger.  
As much as it pained her, she decided not to tell Grey Worm about her condition. If he was angry at Jon's assassination of her, he would not take her pregnancy well. He had only just accepted that she was back to life.  
"May I see Missendai" She said, her voice soft.  
He nodded, standing up and offering her a hand, and took her to the place where he buried his love. Under the shade of a palm tree, facing the sea, it was quiet and serene. A bed of flowers covered the raised earth, and she smiled at how well the grave was tended.  
"It is beautiful ..." She clasped her hands in front of her, "She was a wonderful person"  
Grey Worm nodded, his hands behind his back and standing to attention, like the lifelong Unsullied he was. Daenerys quickly changed the subject, seeing that it was upsetting him deeply.  
"Grey Worm" She paused, Turning to face him, "Thank you for everything you have done, everything the Unsullied have done. I did not expect it to end the way it did, and I am happy that you are here, defending Naath. I am living somewhere safe with Drogon, I don't want to endanger you any more than I already have, so I will not see you for a while. I don't want many to know I am alive, and make everyone I love a target again"  
Grey Worm took her words like a good soldier, and she continued.  
"I am not going after Westeros. Nor will I be returning to Meereen. I will live in Old Valyria, make it my home. That's what I truly want; a home of my own, with Drogon. In the future, if Valyria becomes more prosperous, I would be honoured if you would visit me some day, as a friend. If any Unsullied wish to settle there, when it is ready, they are most welcome, as are any freed slave. I will make a land for everyone who wishes to be free. I will send word when it is ready, if ever"

"With your permission, Khaleesi" Grey Worm's words were measured and respectful, "This one would like to stay here. With Missandei's people. I will tell the others when you are ready"  
"Of course. My friend" She smiled at his use of 'this one', the old way the Unsullied used to refer to themselves. She embraced him in a warm hug, treasuring the most loyal and true of her supporters. As she pulled away, she wiped away a small tear from her face.  
"It was my honour to have you as the Commander of my armies, Grey Worm of the Unsullied. Please look after Naath well"  
Grey Worm nodded, his face stoic but she could tell that her words had reached him, "May Drogon protect you well"

She glasped his forearm in her hand, and he did the same in a final handshake, before she pulled up her scarf over her head and walked along the shore, waiting for Drogon to return and take her back to Valyria ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Grey Worm, and I am so pissed he lost Missandei


	13. Lullabies of Blood and Snow

Where was the woman he loved and lost by his own hand?

Jon had been living with the Wildlings for many months now, close to a year and a half in total. He knew from the cycles in the cold, although it was growing warmer, as Tormund loved to remind him. Grass was seen for the first time in this area in so many generations, but with it came uncertainty as to what this meant for the Wildling's future. Free Folk wondered if they could grow their own crops, a new period of prosperity, one that would help them in summer to prepare for harsh winters, though if those winters would still come was a mystery. Most were under no doubt; the true North would always have winters that would wipe out lesser men, but no winter was ever savage enough to destroy all Free Folk.

While Ghost snored peacefully on the floor beside him, Jon was bundled up in furs on a similarly furnished bed, going over the moment he slid a dagger into the ribs of Daenerys over and over again. It haunted him, more than he thought possible, and he could not fathom how he was able to do it. How could the man, who had known betrayal so very close to his own heart, do the same? Was he really talked into it so easily? Cornered at all sides by snapping ghouls with their own plans, their own machinations, and using his hidden crown to further their own goals?  
He half-wished that Grey Worm had executed him. This was a living death, though he was aware that he was incredibly lucky. He was Beyond the Wall, living a life he wanted to live for a long, long time. They had asked him to become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch once, asked again when he went to speak with Sansa. Just for a little while, they requested, just to train the men and get us on our feet.

Power does terrible things, and he wanted no part in it. He was sure his name was black and bitter in the mouths of many, certainly the Unsullied at least. A betrayer, a Queenslayer, a murderer. He started to wonder if this was what Jaime Lannister had to live with, though his arrogant attitude and the crimes of his bloated family did make the weight of his crime lighter, as well as the terror that King Aerys inflicted on people over a prolonged period of time.  
He was sure Daenerys would have been a good Queen. He was sure of it. So why did he murder her? Why? Why? Why?  
He groaned, rubbing his face and rolling over to bury his head in the furs to escape his own thoughts. He would give anything to see Daenerys again, try to explain himself, and ask why she turned again in that moment to the sound of ringing bells. If he was shocked at his own actions, hers shocked him more.

He would never know the true answer.

-

In the nest of a dragon, an infant was due to be born.

Daenerys had been tending her eggs, as she had done many a countless morning, when a ripple was felt across her belly. At first, she merely thought the child was moving inside her bump, one that seemed as though it was roughly six months along. She was fearful for this birth, as she would be doing it alone, although she reasoned that if things felt wrong, she could go to Naath in an absolute emergency for help. The ghost of Rhaego was never far from her mind, but she reasoned that there was no malicious witch to interfere, therefore this birth would be safer.  
However, her rebirth, the large delay between her last sexual encounter and this pregnancy, and her poisoning were all things she considered, and she still could not understand why she was pregnant now. It had to be the unintentional work of the poison, and somehow the seed was kept fertile after her rebirth.

Drogon, as a good son, was taking care of her. Bringing her fresh, cooked meat, even fish after she expressed a craving. While he still wanted to make sure he had his mother's attention, he seemed more willing to share it, taking an interest in the eggs and prodding them with his nose sometimes, checking their temperature and bringing a mouthful of fresh grass to burn on the brazier. Daenerys thought this incredibly sweet, and Drogon reaped the rewards of his mother's cooing and praise for his little thoughtful acts. As much as he was independent of his brothers, Daenerys thought he must still miss them in a way, and new hatchlings meant company for the last dragon.  
Just as she mulled over names for seven future children, the ripples in her lower stomach happened again. Twice. Three times.

The her water broke.

Gasping in shock, she stood up, her breeches soaked, her hand going to her stomach and feeling the muscles contract around her bump. Something was wrong, it was too early, too early for the baby to be coming.  
Almost automatically, she stripped away her sandals and trousers, starting to pace around in a circle. Her last labour was one fraught with pain and danger, and the anxiety was no less pleasant or helping with the waves of pain rushing down her spine. Her labour had been induced last time, thrown to the ground, a witch chanting magic, but this time she was with a clutch of dragon eggs and Drogon away flying. She could only hope he returned soon.

-

Seven hours. Drogon finally returned, to find his mother sitting back, her legs spread, panting in pain and crying.  
Instantly he was by her side, touching her cheek with his nose, trilling in alarm.  
"The baby's coming, the baby's coming" She put her hand on his mouth, tears thick and fast on her cheeks, "It hurts, it hurts so much"  
She would not admit that to anyone else. What got her through the hours was the idea of the baby living. She was the blood of the dragon, delivered from a cold and endless death by dragonfire, by the love of her son. She would bring this child through endless labour if she needed to. It did not mean the pain stopped, the pain that seemed to rip apart her bowl and womb, the air thick with the scent of blood and mucus. The pain would contract around her lower body, a tightening noose of agony, squeezing the baby out and down her brith canal, before slackening and beginning again. This cycle grew in intensity, grew in frequency, before it became never-ending.  
Her hand left Drogon, returning to the earth, and she uttered a piecing scream into the night sky. Drogon tilted his head back and roared in chorus with his mother, drowning her pain in his own cry, as the baby finally slithered into the world.

Daenerys lay back, panting, exhausted, her heartbeat making her deaf to everything else. However, she was keenly aware of something terrible.

She couldn't hear the baby crying. 

Despite feeling as though she were going to faint at any moment, she struggled to sit back up, looking down between her legs and the bloody mess between them, looking for the baby.  
She couldn't believe what she was looking at. It had to be some sort of trick, some sort of cruel illusion. Drogon was also staring, his breath so very loud as he peered at his new sibling. He didn't seem surprised. He seemed proud, utterly little trilling purrs, watching Daenerys reach forward and pick up the little bundle into her arms.

It was an egg.

It was a perfect, soft, scaled, silver-coloured dragon's egg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something that I've wanted to do for a while, ever since I saw a screengrab of the idea from I THINK Reddit. I'll link it when I find it again, I'd embed it if I could. This, I think, will be make-or-break for the audience, and Gods knows how Jon will react if Daenerys manages to go and show him he is the father of an eggo.


	14. Nurturing

How long was it since she came from the great cold? The blackness that swallowed all her senses, with a distant flickering flame invisible to her cloaked eyes drawing her towards it, away from the velvet-like eternal night?  
She had to guess it was over a year. A year of hiding in Valyria with Drogon, a year resting away from the world, with only Grey Worm and a single Naathi witness knowing she was alive, though the latter probably wasn't aware it was truly the Mother of Dragons.

Mother of Dragons. She had that title ever since the birth of Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserys. She had gotten strange looks as she called the dragons her children, some thinking when she was in Westeros that it was a sign of Targaryen madness. Really, what was strange about it? She helped raise the dragons, they were close to her children. Some people called their favourite hunting dog their 'best boy' or preferred hawk 'my little girl'. Any excuse to demonise her, she supposed, and she felt only Jon really understood how much the dragons meant to her.  
He was so sure that the witch who cursed her, who murdered her husband and son, had been lying. That they were mere words intent on hurting her. She had started to bleed again some time after her reign as Khaleesi ended and she moved to the role of Breaker of Chains. But, as many healers will make known, being able to pass blood does not mean that one can carry a child, or one to term.  
She was sitting next to the brazier, her nest of petrified dragon eggs, cross-legged with her silver egg between her thighs. Contemplating. Trying to really understand what had happened a few days ago. She had given birth to a literal dragon's egg, one similar to the three she had been gifted on her wedding day. This egg, however, was lighter. It was not made stone, it was fresh, the leathery shell had hardened and the scales were thick on the surface, shimmering in silver tones and threaded with lines of metallic blue. She kept this egg very close, never letting it leave her arms except to bathe or eat, and even then, it sat on her lap until she was ready to hold it again.

Drogon was very taken by the egg. He seemed to understand it was a 'live' egg, more so than the petrified ones, and would nudge it with his nose as often as his mother would allow. He shielded her with his wings every night, even starting to try to scrape a nest in the ground so Daenerys could put it there instead of keeping it on her person or in the brazier. She thought this very sweet, relieved that Drogon was taking a positive interest rather than thinking about devouring it. Especially since he had been careful to make sure he still got her attention in between looking after the brazier nest.   
_I started as a mother of three. Then I fell as mother of one. Now I will be a mother of ... nine?_  
That was assuming all brazier eggs hatched, assuming _her_ birth egg hatched. And assuming it was a dragon. It could be a baby, but her gut told her otherwise.  
 _I have become an absolute, literal, Mother of Dragons_.

A part of her was amused. If only her ancestors had seen this, she thought. Like the ones who had lost their minds and became fixated on becoming literal dragons, going to the lengths of drinking wildfire and burning themselves from the inside out and dying in terrible agony. Yes, Jon was a Targaryen in that his seed was that of Daenerys' brother, Rhaegar. But, as she kept looking at the Starks and their distant, cold, honourable ways .... He was a wolf, he was born a wolf, he was going to die a wolf. There are no room for dragons in the world of wolves.  
 _Now the wolf and the dragon have made a literal dragon_.  
She could only guess the fact that she had been poisoned and died, and Jon's own death and resurrection, had something to do with it. Something about the magic in the world, the fight for the Dawn ... She was sure the Maesters would accuse her of somehow impregnating herself with dragonseed, or even of putting the egg inside herself and pushing it out.  
She looked at her silver egg between her thighs, and grimaced. It was painful enough pushing it _out_ , but pushing it _in_ and then out? With no witness other than a dragon to say she did so? Even the maddest woman would do no such thing.  
Quite simply, no-one would believe she birthed a dragon. She had planned to find Jon one day, on the birth of her child, and tell him he was a father. How was she going to tell him he was the father of a dragon? A complete dragon? He would not believe it; he barely believed that the man he believed was his father would lie about his heritage, no matter how noble the reason. If he refused to believe the purest lie, how was he to believe such a thing as this unnatural birth.

"I have a name for your little brother or sister" She whispered to Drogon, who looked up from cleaning his teeth with the claw on his wing next to her. He chirruped in his deep, rumbling 'voice'.  
"You're right" She nodded, "This one, I feel, is going to be a sister"  
She had no idea the gender of her dragons when they hatched; she simply named them as she felt, and referred to them as male. Two had died, and Drogon had not made moves to 'sit' on the eggs like the nests in the Dragon Pit. She merely came to the conclusion he was male, but some Maesters thought dragons could be either, or both, or change. She didn't know. If Drogon laid eggs, she would support him, a mother supporting her child. Something told her this dragon, content inside her shell, was a female.

"I will call her Missanderys"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to go over the Valyrian suffixes for this, as I didn't want to encroach Renesmee territory. I might change it for a smoother fit, but wanted to continue Daenerys' tradition of naming her dragons after significant people in her life and adding a Valyrian suffix (Drogo/Drogon, Rhaegar/Rhaegal, Viserys/Viserion). I know the -erys suffix is from her own name, but the Targs are VERY into reusing names, and Daenerys has only been used a few times so I think this can ride.
> 
> I had thought Missandella, to combine Missandei and Rhaella, Daenerys' mother, but I don't want Missandei's spotlight stolen and the other dragons' names are single, not shared, so Missanderys it is.


	15. Gold and Silver

"We are pleased to see you have come to attend the meeting personally, your Grace"

Bran did not respond to the slightly barbed comment, but that was to be expected. Tyrion sat at the table beside him, hands clasped, whilst the representative from the Iron Bank of Braavos took his place across from them. Eventhough they were supposed to be hosting the man, one Tycho Nestoris, it rather felt as though the banker were hosting them instead.

"We are honoured you were agreeable in making the journey to King's Landing again" Tyrion noted. With the harbour still undergoing repairs, but with ships docking to do trade, it was hoped that seeing the state of affairs in King's Landing after the battle would make their case stronger. It was one thing to state how much was destroyed by dragonfire, it was another to see it with one's own eyes.  
"The last time I was here, I was meeting your late sister, Queen Cersei. I am sorry for your loss"  
Tyrion doubted such a sentiment, but it wasn't his place to really call out such a plesentary. This was business, nothing personal, of course.  
"Thank you. I understand Cersei paid quite a significant amount of gold to reduce the Crown's debt"  
"She did, indeed" Tycho placed his book upon the table, opening the crackling and well-documented pages to a spot only he could see and make sense of. He ran a finger down a column, arriving at a pre-determined place, "A stunning amount of gold, to be sure. It allowed us to consider financing her contract with the Golden Company, and supporting her claim to the Throne. The remaining sum, however, still continues to collect interest. When can the Iron Bank expect the next payment?"

Tyrion took in a breath.  
"We ... are working on trade and rebuilding. We were hoping the Iron Bank could see it's way to allowing us a grace period to recoup the losses after the Battle for King's Landing. After all, such things take time. Once King's Landing becomes a hub for trading again, especially as the land needs a lot of supplies, we will be in a strong position to make payment. Greater payments, even"  
Tycho looked up at Tyrion, his eyes dark and judgemental. Tyrion would have paid him all the gold in Casterly Rock, if there were any left, to make him go away and ease the tension threatening to crack his weary skull. As it was, he tried to be as stoic and diplomatic as possible.  
"I shouldn't have to tell you, Lord Tyrion" The banker closed the book slowly and methodically, "That the Iron Bank has lost much trade from the loss of slavery, due to Daenerys Targaryen. And the Golden Company, which Queen Cersei was so eager to secure, was not inexpensive. That, too, has been destroyed by Daenerys Targaryen. It seems that she has taken her toll on King's Landing as well. For as much as we understand, you must also understand; the Iron Bank has debts it expects to be paid. And we have been given the news that the Seven Kingdoms have become Six; we expect you to keep to your original agreement, regardless of your loss of territory. The new North Queen has no debts with the Bank, but we will meet to discuss her financial needs of her new Kingdom"

"Can we separate our debts?"  
Tycho looked at him as though he were mad.  
"The debt belongs to the Crown" Tyrion's own irritated words reminded him in the banker's mouth, "Regardless of how many lands the Crown holds. Queen Cersei only held the Crownlands, Westerlands and Stormlands when I came to speak to her, but she still paid in good faith"  
His rash words were a grave mistake, Tyrion realised. He shouldn't have asked a question, not in such a desperate moment. He nodded, as though Tycho spoke great wisdom, rather than common sense that he should have personally known better.  
"Of course ... I apologise. When do you plan to meet Queen Sansa?"  
"As soon as is convenient"  
Tyrion hoped she wouldn't fall afoul of their pretty promises and grim threats of what happened to those who didn't repay debts. The North had a head-start on being debt-free, but also lacked the income from King's Landing. They had funded themselves for many years before becoming part of the Seven Kingdoms, but it would take time to regain their footing.  
"The Crown is committed to repaying its debts" Tyrion clarified, admitting a small defeat, "We simply ask for a lower payment structure until we are able to trade as we have before"  
Tycho considered this, and stood up.  
"I will consult with my fellows at the bank" He stated, "You will receive your answer in a week. We will not agree to a reprieve, that much I can assure you, but as I have seen the destruction from the battle with my own eyes ... we will see what we can arrange"  
"Thank you" Tyrion let out the breath he didn't know he was holding, standing up to escort the man from the room. Once the chamber door was shut, he poured himself a glass of the finest Dornish red, and downed it in one go.

"That went well" Bran finally spoke up, having remained silent and still throughout all the meeting.  
"..." Not for the first time, thoughts of regicide crossed the mind of the last Lannister.

-

Gold. Silver. Bronze. Pennies. Stags. Dragons. Money was the last thing on the mind of the last Targaryen. The last true one, anyway.  
Daenerys watched, and watched with baited breath, the shell of the dragon egg in her hands. She had felt the creature inside stir last night, waking herself and Drogon up as she sat up in excitement. She knew the sound that came next, the sound of a cracking shell, one that would herald the arrival of the first dragon since her three sons.  
Since then, the crack had grown larger, webbing across the surface of the egg. She was tempted to break the shell to let the baby out, but wisdom told her to let the little one pip herself. To break free under her own strength. Drogon was excited, clear to see in his hawkish watching of the egg and waving of his neck frills. Trilling, he touched the egg with his nose, encouraging his newest sibling to make her way into the world.  
"Come on ... you can do it ..." Daenerys whispered, the egg sitting between her crossed thighs, stroking the shell gently in encouragement.  
Almost on cue, a louder crack sounded, and a slender little snout poked free from the egg. Slick with albumen, the egg tooth prominent, Daenerys gasped as she beheld silvery scales, becoming more opalescent and beautiful as the sack containing the albumen broke. Pausing, the infant took her first few breaths of true air, the air of old Valyria.  
After a couple of hours, the dragon moved again, this time breaking through the shell completely, the top falling away as bright, shimmering blue eyes beheld Daenerys, and Daenerys smiled down at her daughter. Drogon uttered a yelping bellow of joy, almost pushing his snout into the egg to see the newborn. The baby shied away, unsure of this great, black monster bearing down on her, but Daenerys stroked the top of her slick head.  
"Welcome to the world, Missanderys ..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BAAAAAAAAAAAACK~  
> I watched a few crocodile egg hatching videos for this one. Absolutely adorable!


	16. Dreams of Fire

_How should I introduce you?_

Jon stood, nude in the snow, surrounded in all sides by shadows. Shadows that he knew, of men made of bone and sinew, animated by the breath of winter and with eyes of cold fire. They occasionally moved their weight from one decrepit foot to another, but otherwise were still. Watching, Waiting.  
When he first saw them, Jon had instinctively reached for Longclaw by his hip, only to find that the only sword he was carrying was between his thighs. Cold, alone, he could only carefully watch his audience, awaiting the sight of a White Walker, or the late Night King to guide them. It had been a long while since he had had dreams of the dead, and this was a most unwelcome one.

He was not in his tent in the Wildling settlement he had called home for the past year and a half. Nor was he in Winterfell, where sometimes his dreams took him, to empty corridors and a still warmth he missed more than he cared to admit. There were other dreams, more disturbing, more bloody ...  
He tried not to think of those ones when he woke up.  
Still, this was a change, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. The wights were quite some distance away from him and didn't seem to want to come closer. They easily outnumbered him, and he didn't even have Ghost to shadow him.  
"..." The winds blew colder, and he shivered down to the bone. He daren't move, but couldn't guess how long they would remain there, just watching him. He didn't doubt they would devour him if he moved closer, but didn't see any other way out other than to wake up. 

_Should I tell you the name? Would you want to know?_

Whispers in his ears, ones that didn't come from around him, though he turned his head to hear anyway. A warm breath, a voice he knew, but couldn't bring himself to name. It was just a memory, he told himself. Just an echo. A shadow. A past he was supposed to forget.

_Look at me, Jon_

Again, he turned his head, almost on command. And that's when he saw a large shadow emerging from the mists beyond the ring of wights all around him. Easily bigger than anything he had seen in the far North, he first wanted to believe it was a reanimated bear, the white, thick-furred ones that Wildlings could occasionally hunt if they were sick or dying, but otherwise would be killed by. The reward for success was a fur that was superior in warmth to anything in the world, and a slice of liver he could drop in his enemies food if he wanted an agonising death for a man. Was it perhaps the eight-legged monsters, the ice-spiders he overhead Wildling mothers tell their children about? He personally had never seen them, but Tormund assured him they were very real. Fangs as big as your thigh, he'd say, making ropes out of their arse to catch bears. Jon had heard that they were only supposed to be as big as hounds, but also were used as mounts for Walkers.  
He really rather hoped this shadow was not a spider.  
Another idea came to him, and his breath caught in his chest as the shape became clearer. Amber and ruby-coloured eyes, with an obsidion slit pupil cut through the mists, a glowing figure atop the shadow, radiate in gold. Breathtaking, he could do nothing except watch, the wights seemingly melting away as the shadow came closer to him. A rumbling sound, one made by Drogon, sounded within his own chest and made his heart beat harder.

_Look at me_

He could do nothing else. REsplendent in her glory, the glow dimmed and allowed him to see the woman standing on top of Drogon's shoulders. Dressed in a while, silky gown, her hair loose and flowing, she was everything that was beautiful in the world. The warmth seeped into his blue-tinged flesh, melting the soft frost on the ringlets of his hair, and he could almost cry at her gentle expression. Her pillowy lips were lush and inviting, and her arms beckoned him towards her ...  
But Drogon was watching him, and Jon took hold of himself. Was this a trick? A manifestation of the Stranger, reminding Jon of his crimes? If he embraced her, would he be pulled back into the darkness that Melissandra had ripped him from?  
Tears fell down his face as he didn't know what to do. He wanted so badly to take her in his arms, to plead forgiveness, but he could just as easily be a victim of a night-time spell.  
"Dany?" He asked, and Daenerys nodded.  
"But ... is, is this a ... Am I dead?"  
"Are you? Am I?" Blood started to trickle down from her nose and mouth, a bloodstain erupting on the white dress under her ribs, precisely where Jon had stabbed her with his dagger in King's Landing. Jon squeezed his eyes shut, but the sight was burned into his vision, haunting him, taunting him.  
"Dany ..." His voice harsh, the tears falling harder, "I'm sorry. Gods, I'm so fucking sorry ..."  
"Do you want to see me, Jon?"  
"..." He wondered if this was when the trick came. He decided he didn't care.  
"More than anything"  
"Then I will see you again" Daenerys walked down Drogon's wing, as she had done many times as the dragon-riding Queen claimant of Westeros, "I will bring you news, I will being you choice"  
"Will you forgive me?" Her speech was not something Jon recognised as coming from Daenerys. It was simpler, almost prophecy-like, and more akin to something Bran would say. Could Bran induce dreams in others? He had prophetic dreams, Jon did as well, all the Stark children did sometimes. But Jon never read them as well as Bran did. Maybe this was simply guilt, maybe this was self-torture, maybe-  
All his thoughts stopped as Daenerys moved to embrace him. Jon breathed in the scent of her warmth, her perfume, her fire giving his cold, numb skin life ...

But just as his arms touched her, he awoke.

Jon paused, staring up at the stretched leather roof of his tent. The night-time blizzard howled outside. Ghost lay on a bed close to the door, his remaining ear up and alert to detect any intruders.  
"Dany ..." He clenched his teeth, trying to choke back the feelings of bitter disappointment and mourning enveloping his throat ...

-

"You look like shit"  
Jon couldn't disagree, a hint of a smile mixed with a grimace pulling at the corner of his lips as he sat across from Tormund around a communnal fire to warm his bones in the rising morning llight.  
"Thanks" The former King of the North replied, "I feel like shit"  
The Giantsbane merely grunted, taking a sip of something out of a mammoth-tusk mug. Jon didn't want to guess what it was, but probably something that would make Southern men blind after a few sips.  
Ghost, in his silent steps, made his own way to the fire, yawning widely to show his gimmering fangs. Jon scratched the stub of one of his ears, staring at the animal with his thoughts wrapped in his past and in his dreams. He had sent Ghost away with Tormund before he went South, just in case he didn't come back. Only two Direwolves remained out of the original Stark pack; Ghost and Nymeria. Arya said that Nymeria was running free, free with a pack of normal wolves and reigning as their massive Queen. Ghost should have that future, he decided. Beyond the wall, where he would have the chance of finding a mate and running wild as Direwolves should. He should have expressed more concern for Ghost, he should have tended to him after the battle, not drinking and laughing ... where was his head? Even Daenerys made sure her dragon Rhaegal was safe and healing when busy with politics.

_Daenerys ..._

"He's slept well" Tormond nodded to Ghost, still sipping his brew. Something was bothering Jon, he never hid his brooding very well, but asking him outright usually made the man irritable and moodier still.  
"He doesn't have dreams of wights" Jon muttered darkly.  
"I have dreams of the big woman" His voice taking on a longing, days-gone-by tone of wistfulness, "Can't believe she fell for that pretty buy's gold cock. And then he up and leaves her to fuck his sister; I wouldn't have done that. A real man would have stayed with her, be her spearman. Imagine her raiding your castles! We would have giant babies, many of them ..."  
"Aye, well, she serves Bran now"  
"Even bigger waste" He sounded disgusted, "Not allowed to shag anyone? Who are some King's bodymen worried about? Accidentally shagging each other on a dark night?"  
"Jaime didn't exactly stay away from that rule" Jon pointed out, and that seemed to brighten up Tormund's morning, until Jon brought down the other foot, "But after Jaime, I don't think Lady Brienne would give her heart to anyone else"  
"Madness" He shook his head, spitting into the fire, "Stupid madness in that castle of yours. Made your woman mad as well"  
"She wasn't mad" Jon was quick to say it without even thinking about it.  
"You sure? You stuck her good because she was going mad"  
"She wasn't ... I mean, she was going to ... pour blood, to free the world" Jon faltered, and Tormund stared at him with that crazy-eyed stare. Jon was starting to see why Brienne always looked so alarmed at Tormund around ... that stare would put the frighteners in anyone.  
"Dreaming about her, have you"  
"No"  
"Liar"  
"I have not!"  
"Jon, I know two things about you; you have a tiny cock, and you can't lie to save yourself"  
"... Alright, fine, yes, I've dreamt about her. I can't NOT dream about a woman I was in love with ... and ... killed"  
"You need to get your head sorted. Find another girl"  
"Will you find another girl after Lady Brienne?"  
"Crow, ANY other lass will be a disappointment after the big woman"  
_No-one could replace Ygritte. No-one can replace Daenerys ..._  
"I don't want one" Jon muttered, "I just want peace"  
"Wouldn't we all ..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image of a golden, radiant Daenerys comes from a piece of art, “The Resurrection of Daenerys Targaryen” by SK CZ, [which I came across via this tumblr post.](https://oadara.tumblr.com/post/186653144366/the-resurrection-of-daenerys-targaryen-by-sk-cz)


	17. Brothers and Sisters

" _Dracarys_ "  
The word for dragonfire, in the tongue of Old Valyria, the place she had made a nest for her children. It seemed only fitting she carried on something she started with her three sons onto her silver daughter, perching the baby on her lap and looking down at a lump of meat from the sheep that Drogon had brought for them.  
Drogon watched, lying down with his head held high, flame-coloured eyes assessing his little sister. Missanderys looked at the dead sheep, throat torn from the might of Drogon's massive claws, then looked up at her mother.   
" _Dracarys_ " Daenerys said again, smiling encouragingly.   
Missanderys clicked a few times, looking at the sheep and rumbling deep in her throat, trying to summon her fire. She coughed. Once, twice, three times, but only smoke drifted from her mouth and nose. She hissed in frustration, but Drogon seemed to find it amusing.  
Daenerys looked up at her oldest son, and had an idea. Perhaps the best way to show someone new was to let an old hand give a demonstration.  
"Drogon. Dracarys?"  
Drogon growled, moving his head back and letting the fire brew in his lungs before letting out a long, tall plume of flame into the air. Black, acrid smoke shot after the fire, and he looked down at his mother and Missanderys with pride etched along his jaw. Daenerys laughed and clapped her hands, enjoying the show as Missanderys squeaked with excitement and bobbed up and down on Daenerys' knee, her wings furling and unfurling for flight that she couldn't quite manage yet.  
His ego stroked, Drogon leaned down and bit a small chunk out of the sheep, surprisingly delicate work for someone so large, and placed it close to Missanderys. The little dragon watched hawkishly, her jaw snapping at the sight of the fresh, bloody meat and her hunger evident.  
"Missanderys" Daenerys said in a low, soft voice, her hand on the little hatchling's back in encouragement, "Dracarys"  
The pearl of Valyria opened her mouth, uttered a small ruby-coloured spark of fire, then the tiniest plume of yellow flame infused with white smoke, her breath wheezing as the effort took all the air out of her. Drogon bellowed with pride, shifting his weight between one wing and another, as Daenerys giggled in delight. Once the meat had stopped smoking, the hungry hatching devoured it in one swallow, impatiently looking at her mother for more. Not one to deny her, Daenerys tore another small chunk, holding it for Missanderys to cook again without using the word, before giving the rest to Drogon, Drogon, for his part, roasted the carcass without much trouble, and gave his mother the head with the roasted brains inside for her own supper. Missanderys demanded the jellied eyeball as a plaything at first, before deciding it was worth eating as well.

"She has just as big an appetite as you" The Mother of Dragons noted, which Drogon affirmed whilst crunching through the bones of the sheep, "I wonder if she'll be as big as you. It's ... so hard to believe you used to be this small" Wistful, taking Missanderys onto her lap again as the baby dragon chewed her own claws to get the blood from her meals off them.  
Drogon found this amusing, resting his head on the ground next to Daenerys, as if to emphasis just how small Missanderys, and herself, was in comparison to him.  
"But no matter how big they get ..." She leaned over, resting on her hip with Missanderys cuddled to her breast, her upper body pressed against Drogon's head as Drogon purred with contentment, "They will never stop being your little ones ..."

* * *

"Did you take my message about returning the body of Theon Greyjoy to the Iron Islands?" Sansa asked, sitting in her study with the sounds of construction ringing all around Winterfell. The weather had been quite good, and workers were able to work in all the light hours that the day could give. The downside to that was the headaches that Sansa got from the sounds of hammering and chiselling all day, from dusk to dawn.  
"I .. did, your grace"  
"And what did Yara Greyjoy say?" Why the man needed prompting, Sansa did not know. However, his hesitation was understandable, when he produced a round Stark shield from his cloak. Embedded in the shield, cleaving the neck of the embossed direwolf sigil in two, was a hand-axe adorned with the twisting tentacles of the Greyjoy kraken. 

The message could not have been clearer.

Sansa sighed. She could take a force to the Iron Islands to punish them for this insolence, or send word down to Bran, as the isles were part of his Kingdom. There was no reason for such an action; she would have thought they would welcome Theon back as a gesture of goodwill. However, Yara, having been promised independence by Daenerys Targaryen and seeing no reason for her murder, was not in a listening mood. While she was Queen of the Iron Islands, speaking to a Stark was not going to be on her agenda. How she was faring with the Dornish was anyone's guess.  
The war had been devastating to everyone, and she would rather not deal with Ironborn raids, not while the land was still trying to recover. She was having issue enough filling the empty houses left behind by dead families of noble blood - Bear Island especially - and while she was very tempted to torch the Dreadfort to end such a poisonous stronghold, she held back as materials and property were in short supply.  
Still. The North had been independent for centuries before the Targaryens brought everyone under their yoke with their dragons, they would do so again.

"I will address this in the morning" She put down her quill, standing from her chair as maids hurried to take it away from her, "See to it that construction ends early today; the men have worked hard enough"  
"Yes, your Grace" A foreman nodded, disappearing as Sansa made her way to her private chambers. She was in the mood for a hot bath, something to ease the tension in her shoulders and jaw ... A glass of lemonwater - she dare not touch too much wine after her time with Cersei - and perhaps something to read before bed. Something with romance and adventure that didn't end with rape and disembowelling the heroes. 

Just as she entered her bathroom, her feet immediately became wet. Confused, she looked at the bath, and saw that it was not only full, but overflowing.  
"Ara" She called a maid, "I ... When did the maids run a bath for me?"  
"We ... didn't, your Grace" Ara had only stepped into the room perhaps two steps, before she too felt her feet wet. Stunned, she watched the bath overflow, then looked to the walls to see that water was trickling down from cracks in the stone.   
"The pipes!" She rushed over, putting her hand to the rock and feeling the warmth behind them from the piped water stronger than usual. The springs underneath Winterfell heated the halls in the darkest winters, and provided bathing water to defrost from the bone-numbing cold outside. Sometimes they burst, but this was rare, and usually to do with age.  
"I'll summon a builder at once!" She rushed off, leaving Sansa to stand in the room with her cloak gradually soaking up more water. Did the men break through a pipe? Or was Winterfell more decrepit than it looked?

Or the veins of the world were growing hotter with the lack of Night Kings to make them cool again ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update, because I like mummy Daenerys and Good Son Drogon.
> 
> It's noted that summers were hotter and longer with the dragons around. Time to see what happens when there are lots of them about ...


	18. Here We Stand

"You're not going to like what I am about to ask"  
Daenerys' gaze was far away, cradling Missanderys in her arms while Drogon stared at his mother. The frills on his neck started to slowly raise, and he drew his lips away from his teeth, already getting an idea of what her request was, and indeed, not liking it.  
"I need you to take me North-"  
Drogon didn't let her finish, uttering a loud, threatening growl.  
"To an island in the Bay of Seals-"  
He stood up, resting his weight from one wing to another, his growls becoming louder, more ragged.  
"And go Beyond the Wall-"  
He screeched, an almost petulant one, one that Missanderys mirrored as the tense atmosphere excited and worried her.  
"And bring back Jon Snow-"  
Drogon roared, harsh and loud, making his mother wince at the volume, but she continued.  
"Bring Jon Snow to me, so we can talk"  
Drogon clawed at the ground with his feet, mixing his roars with screeches and bursts of flame, his tail swinging round and knocking over nearby piles of rubble on purpose rather than accident with his landings.  
"I know!" Daenerys looked up at her deeply upset child, softening her voice as she stood up, and put her hand up to this great beast that towered over her, "Drogon, I know, I know ... I shouldn't want it, it's foolish, it's dangerous ... I just ... I just need to know. I want to know how someone could do that to me. To us"  
Drogon calmed a little, but not by much, bringing his head down to Daenerys and pressing against her. Chirping, demanding assurance. He had lost her once before, it had hurt him in a way that he could not even express. He did not want to lose her again, not when she had a hatchling and seven eggs to consider. And him. Always him.  
"I want him to meet Missanderys" Daenerys pressed her forehead against the space between Drogon's eyes, sighing softly at the warmth of his rough scales against her soft, pale skin, "I want him to know that he has a child, and he has done us wrong. I want to know why he thought he should murder me, knowing what he does ... I want to know ..."

Daenerys rarely could say no to Drogon, and Drogon lost the will to say no to his mother a long time ago. He had his moments, his taste of the wild, but knowing how many daggers there were in the dark waiting to catch her, it made him want to protect her. And this plan was perhaps more dangerous than the wars that they had partaken in. But he would agree. Carefully. Reluctantly.  
"And if he wants to try again" Daenerys' expression darkened, her hold on Missanderys tighter, "Be sure to melt him down to ash and blow him into the Shivering Sea ..."  
Drogon croaked a chuckle at his mother's draconic blood showing again.

-

"How's Castlery Rock?"  
Bronn toyed with an apple, peeling it painfully slow with a small dagger and taken chips of it to eat as Tyrion poured over a mountain of paperwork that littered the Hand's desk. Tyrion could barely summon the will to be interested in the sellsword's presence.  
"It's fine. Needs a good tidy, perhaps"  
"I would have thought the cockless men would have destroyed it"  
"Casterly Rock has stood for thousands of years, and has never fallen in battle. It would take more than a few hundred men to overrule it's might"  
"Maybe if the crawled up the arse of it, they might" Referring to the sewer entrance that the Unsullied had used, a strategy given to them by Tyrion himself, former warden of the sewers.  
"That little detail has been shored up, I assure you. The mines are secure, dry as they are, and anything destroyed inside will be mended"  
The lion fixtures had been vandalised, many etching the Targaryen sigil over the top as a show of defiance, and lion statues had been decapitated. One rather artistic Unsullied had even drawn a crude outline of Drogon on the Lion's Mouth at the very front of the Rock.  
"A little bird told me that you were planning a memorial for Jaime and Cersei" Bronn mentioned casually, gaining a look from Tyrion's heavy brow as he looked from under his messy fringe at the Lord of Highgarden.  
"What of it?"  
"Jaime, I understand. I mean, you two were always on good terms, even with dragon queens getting in the way" Bronn had heard stories about Jaime doing his best to protect his brother, and Tyrion in return did not undermine Jaime's intelligence, "But Cersei?"  
"She was my sister"  
"The same sister that tried to have you killed, if I remember right", Bronn should remember, he was one of many contracted to do the deed, until he double-crossed the woman, "And did you say you'd rape her next time you met?"  
Tyrion paused. He said many terrible things, and his fall from grace had taught him that such words could come back to haunt him, "I said many things. Not all of them I meant"  
"Like 'I pledge allegiance to Queen Daenerys Targaryen?'"  
"Where are you going with this" Tyrion had had enough. He could barely concentrate with Bronn talking, but with the man needling him, it was impossible. He threw the parchment down he'd been reading, and sat back in his chair, "Do I exist just to amuse you?"  
"Nah" Bronn shrugged, "I'm just enjoying meself. Boring up here, with the lords and ladies"  
"Why not go back to Highgarden"  
"Shit all to do there either. Count the grain, send it here, people bleating about being hungry ... At least there's whores here"  
"What are you paying with. Last time we spoke, you were complaining about no gold"  
"Desperate lasses don't need payment" Bronn laughed, "Not when they think they can fuck themselves into being the next Lady of Highgarden"  
Tyrion sighed, pouring himself some wine. That was something he was going to have to watch for himself. He had been married twice, although the second one, to Sansa Stark, was dissolved due to non-consumation. He had sworn off love for a long time, and he was too busy for the moment. But those who aimed high would always have an eye for him. And some had less than honourable intentions ...  
"What about YOUR money? Got some hidden in the Rock, have you?"  
"I have enough in the coffers to pay for servants, it is only a small staff when my place is here" Tyrion sipped the wine, finding it rather tart and perhaps a touch spoiled, "They need only to dust and feed themselves, nothing more"  
"Lannisters are supposed to shit gold. Been on the pot, have you?"  
Tyrion could barely summon the energy for a smile at such a well-worn joke.  
"I heard there's a poison that makes you do that, y'know. Shit gold"  
"Oh?"  
"Aye. Called 'Tywin's Lament'"

Tyrion laughed a bitter, joyless sound into the suddenly chilled air.

-

North of Skane and Skagos, the land of the cannibalised and the cannibals respectively, stood a single island in the Bay of Seals within the Shivering Sea. Merely a rock with some lichen and trees clinging with desperate stubbornness, it was not worth noting to anyone but cartographers, and captains that didn't want their ships to dash upon the cliffs. Which, apparently, many had done. A ring of half-sunken wrecks surrounded the island, Daenerys noted, as Drogon flew through the chilled air and landed on a grassy plain big enough to support his size. Immediately, she shivered at the sudden change from the warm, volcanic temperatures of Valeria to this ... place.  
Missanderys was wrapped in a cloak that Daenerys had salvaged from another wreak back home, and she had wrapped it firmly around her body in anticipation of the cold. Even then, leaving Drogon's back was torture, and she quickly took shelter under the nearest tree.  
"Please ..." Daenerys looked at her son, "Bring him to me"  
Drogon was still not fully happy, but did as his mother was bid. She watched him take flight, settling down under the tree with her hatchling, waiting for that fateful meeting between old lovers ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to watch the death scene. I couldn't. I really couldn't.
> 
> The island is the one that's above Skane and Skagos, and I found no name for it. So we'll just call it Backstabber Island for now.


	19. Look At Me

A blizzard was nothing new, not Beyond the Wall. Still, Jon struggled to see out of the hair that was frozen solid to his face, the fur wrapped around his head and neck almost no help. Ghost kept close, pressing against his legs to make sure his master was still there, closing his ruby-red against against the fierce winds.  
"Maybe we should head back" He shouted over the snow, and Ghost agreed, turning on his heels to go back to camp. Jon, however, did not mirror his movement.

"..." Ghost watched him carefully, the silence just as deafening as the weather, as Jon stared in the direction he was supposed to be turning away from. He seemed to be studying something, but what, the direwolf did not know.  
"... Nothing. It's nothing" Jon answered a question the animal did not voice. Satisfied, Ghost continued to trot ahead of the former King in the North as the man trudged through the fresh snow being piled up around them by the storm. Even with three inches of leather and fur, he struggled to get through, and the cold reached him even though his well practised dressings.  
"..." Jon turned sharply on his heel, staring behind him yet again, this time drawing out Longclaw. Did he expect a White Walker? After spending so long worrying about them and fearing the Night King, he wouldn't be blamed for letting old habits die hard. That threat was gone, at least as far as everyone knew. But something was still making the hairs on the back of his frigid neck stand on end, and he wasn't convinced it was simply an enemy Freeman or a bear.  
Ghost was close to done with his master's nonsense, his sensitive nose not detecting anything on the wind other than snow and ice. He was about to physically drag the man back, when a piecing shriek rang through the air.  
"RUN!" Jon bellowed at Ghost, looking over his shoulder at one of the last two direwolves in the Stark family, "RUN!!"  
The white wolf would do no such thing. He ran back to help guard Jon, just as a great black shadow swooped on the pair of them. Massive obsidion-coloured claws grabbed Jon, causing him to involuntarily drop Longclaw, barely missing Ghost by a whisper.

Great leathery wings snatched the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, carrying him into the void of the storm above, as Ghost howled into the night ...

* * *

Daenerys saw her son coming through the clouds above, much to her relief. All too well, she knew what had happened the last time her children ventured beyond the Wall ... but this time, she hoped, there were no Night Kings, old or new, to take him and make him a wight like her beloved Viserion. Seeing him alive, and very well, was a huge weight lifted off the Queen of Dragonstone's heart.   
Still, there was the reason he was back, and she could see a figure behind held in his claws. She stood up, still keeping Missanderys close to her breast and in the warmth of her cloak, away from prying eyes. Any threat to this precious hatchling, she would attack with her bare hands. This, she promised.

Much like Kinvira, Jon had been mostly blind during his flight due to Drogon's foot obscuring his vision. Unlike her, this wasn't his first dragonflight, but was his first in which he was abducted and not sitting on the animal's back. The sense of wonder mixed with utter terror he felt at Rhaegal's flight was replaced with simple terror at Drogon's flight. He knew the dragon obeyed only Daenerys, he knew that Drogon had been massively upset with Daenerys' death, and he had assumed that Drogon was going to kill him when he summoned his fires to melt the Iron Throne. Why he hadn't, Jon never worked out.   
He simply assumed that Drogon was going to do what he should have done in King's Landing. He didn't expect to be snatched, not killed, and brought south. 

His mother asked him not to kill Jon, just bring him to her. She didn't specify if he had to be fully well. Out of petty spite, Drogon dropped Jon a good ten feet from the ground, landing close by with an over-exaggerated _thud_ to announce his power. Just to make his point very, _very_ clear, he uttered a snarling roar, his hot breath washing over Jon in a hint to the fire he could smother with him. Jon had looked at him in the broken Red Keep like he had accepted that the dragon was going to be his executioner. Drogon wasn't going to be merciful if he fucked up again. He wouldn't be protected by Drogon's rage and confusion at his mother's death. Not this time. Not this time.

Jon, for his part, gulped in terrified breaths as he sat up, landing in a painful heap on the windswept grass was bruising, but he was otherwise unharmed. It reminded him, unpleasantly, of sitting up after his resurrection. His sense of the world and the directions completely spun around him, his inner ear struggling to understand which way was up, and he stumbled over twice like an Oldtown drunk before he could stand. Albeit standing like a newborn horse, he had to admit.  
If his sense of what was right was spun with a simple dragon abduction, the sight of his former lover standing under a naked tree was sure to send him headlong into another dive.

"D .... Dany? Daenerys?" His raspy voice half-whispered, half-hissed in absolute disbelief. This was a delusion. It HAD to be a delusion. Daenerys was dead; he felt her blood pool in his hand himself. It was his blade, he had watched the light die in her eyes, he had heard her last breath ...  
"Jon" Her voice was clear, clear as a sun-kissed piece of glass in the morning light. She wasn't as radiant as his dream, but her beauty still stole his breath away. Standing with plain hair, tied simply behind her head, wearing clothing obviously too big for her and wrapped in a cloak against the winds. She had mentioned how cold the North was to her, having grown up in Essos and navigating the humid Dothraki sea ...  
"... " He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to _do_. His first instinct was to run to her and embrace her, but the sharp eyes and exposed teeth of Drogon between them made sure he made no such hasty move. Part of him couldn't help but feel it was a trick, and he turned his head away from her.  
"Look at me" Her voice was commanding, and he had to behold her beauty. Carefully, he made a step forward, watching Drogon out the corner of his eye. Daenerys said nothing, simply watching, and Drogon was the same. Carefully, gently, he walked until he was half a metre away from her. Far enough that Drogon could come between them, but close enough to let him see her.

The frost of the blizzard had melted into his hair, making the ringlets more pronounced and his overall look more rugged. Daenerys would appreciate it more, if she weren't reminded this was the man who had murdered her. For his part, Jon noticed that she looked healthy, feeling how warm she was even from this distance, though there was a little something missing in her eyes. He had noticed it when he had come back from the cold, and ... suddenly he could very much believe that this was the same Queen of the Dragons that he had known. Had loved.   
"... Is that really you?" He dared to ask the most obvious question.  
"What do you think" An answer he hadn't expected from her, but even he had to acknowledge it was a stupid question. The awkwardness was something that neither would overcome easily.  
"I ... How?"  
"How? How am I here? How did I come back? How could you betray me? Which would you like answered first" Her tone acidic, but Jon answered her in absolute earnest.  
"All of it. I need to know, all of it"  
"..." She stared at him, her eyes steely, but decided he could know that.

"Drogon brought me back. Drogon brought me here, because I asked him to. Because I wanted to talk to you"  
Jon looked over at Drogon. Drogon uttered a low growl, almost challenging Jon to question how he had brought his mother back.  
"I don't know how. I don't know. I was in a cold place, Jon. Cold. Black. I was walking through snow and ice, like a vision I had in the past, and I saw a tent in the distance. I was almost there, almost in the warm, but I felt a pull back. I heard Drogon calling for me. He was crying, he was screaming, he was in _so much pain_. I had to go back, I had to back and see him, to be with him. He needed me, he needed his mother"  
"..." Jon looked down. He had watched Drogon mourn, saw the beast lashing out in agony. He knew the bond between the two was deep, he knew that most called Daenerys their mother, but he hadn't truly understood how literal it was. Daenerys cried for Viserion. She had wailed for Rhaegal. Any Stark would mourn their direwolf as a member of the family. But the bond between Drogon and Daenerys was even deeper than that of the others. Drogon was wild, angry, violent, and would listen to no-one but her. He treated this woman, this woman no bigger than his foot, as true as a man would treat his mother. Jon had seen that in the flesh, and it filled him with even more shame than he had felt at his cowardly act. He killed a mother, and watched her son cry for her. 

"I want to know why you did it, Jon. Why did you murder me"  
"..." Jon kept looking down, not answering her. She stared at him hard, almost trying to force it out of him by her look alone.  
"Jon"  
No answer.  
"..." She walked closer, her steps soft, but radiating a power that came from generations of dragonlords. She was so close to him, he almost shrank away from her. He had faced the living dead, he had fought monsters that man would not dare name, but this woman who was smaller than he was ... she made him feel powerless at this moment. Not from the dragon watching him, not from her armies and the might that had brought her across the world, but from her sheer spirit. One that came back from the dead, and demanded answers he never thought he had to give.  
"Tell me, Jon. Tell me why you murdered me. Why you betrayed me. _Why _" Without warning, she grabbed his hand, pulling the protective woolen glove off in her first attempt and then his naked fingers on the second, "You did _THIS_ "__

__She placed his hand on her side, underneath the cloak, under the tunic she wore loose against her breast. On a solid pebble of silver, a molten lump of steel that had plugged her wound between the ribs, where Jon had stabbed her. His hand was cold, but her skin felt almost blisteringly hot, searing through his nerves and bones as she forced his hand to remain on the seal of betrayal he had marked her with. She stared into his eyes, stared clean into his _soul_ , a judge, a jury, and Drogon the executioner ready and waiting.   
He couldn't take his hand away. His brown eyes, always so melancholy, filled with tears and his entire body shook, sobs worming their way up from deep inside his chest as his guilt finally bubbled up and stole his breath in hiccuping waves. This was the fatal wound he had inflicted on the woman he loved. This really was Daenerys, she really was back to ask him why.  
" _I'm sorry ..._ " It was all he could manage, tears flooding down his face. Daenerys let his hand go, and it fell back at his side, as he stood before her. Naked in his sorrow, he could do nothing more than fall to his knees, head bowed before the Queen he had bent the knee to.  
"I'm sorry ..."_ _

__"... " Daenerys watched this display. She have found it pitiful, once upon a time, when the facade of a Queen was all she could really show outside of a select circle. When the harshness of Essos and the way it beat the kindness out of dreamers had hardened her to men who would take her good nature and twist it to break her spirit. However, she was, at heart, one with a gentle core. 'I do not have a gentle heart', she had said once. True, there was a streak in her that stretched back to Visenya that demanded a hard heart and a steel guard upon her breastplace. But there was also the sweet hand of Rhaenerys, who was the light in the House of the Dragon. Married to both was Aegon, who was solitary, harsh to traitors, but generous to those who submitted. All three were inside her, she knew, and she had to be knowledgeable about which side to show.  
She had shown Visenya, but the call of Rhaenerys came, and she lowered herself onto the ground, sitting opposite Jon and watching him weep. Once she had had her fill of his suffering, she reached over, and embraced him.  
Jon was hesitant, but a confused and battle-scarred heart needed comfort, and he took her embrace like a dying man takes fresh water. Burying his face in her shoulder, he wept loudly, begging her forgiveness, as she said nothing but stroked the hair at the back of his head, eyes closed in a moment of tranquillity.  
All the while, she kept her right arm cradling something to her chest, making sure Jon did not crush it against her. With the closeness, Jon pulled back, looking deep into her eyes. He had the urge to kiss her, but knew she would not allow it just yet.  
"Why" She asked again, in a whisper.  
"I ..."_ _

__Jon's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a chirrup deep inside Daenerys' cloak. Daenerys looked down, and a silver-coloured face poked out from underneath the fabric, looking up at Daenerys and then to Jon, watching him with wary, bright blue eyes.  
"Jon. This is Missanderys. She is your daughter"_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Popcorn time*
> 
> Ghost is supposed to be totally silent in the books, but was made to have some sounds in the TV series to offset how eerie that would be (and make sure it didn't look like the sound people hadn't fucked up). So he awoo.


	20. The Pearl of Valyria

" ... My ... daughter"  
Daenerys did not blink.  
Missanderys looked up at her mother from her warm and safe pouch within her cloak, uttering little chirps and rumbling croaks as she turned her blue eyes back to Jon. Drogon loudly came closer, his head directly next to Daenerys and growling a warning to the man not to touch the little hatchling. Jon had seen full-grown dragons, had seen the bones of weak and stillborn hatchlings in the dragonpit ... Indeed, Daenerys had held a piece of infant jawbone in her hand when they went to treat with Cersei, one found by Jon and given to her. She always had the air of wanting to bury the bones in the pit, and it took seeing Missanderys to really put it into perspective for Jon. Daenerys had looked at the jawbone, only just a little bigger than her hand, with pity. Regret. Sorrow. At the time, she mentioned her dead child, the baby Rhaego. To her, handling the jawbone was speaking about the death of another child, a dragon, and she had known what they were like from how small her three sons had been. She knew how small they were, how they needed protection to grow into the giants they became. And she had affirmed that she knew that chaining up Rhaegal and Viserion was wrong, and vowed to never, ever shackle her children again.

That jawbone, a thing of curiosity to Jon but a sacred callback to her ancestors for Daenerys, and a forewarning of their destruction, now had a more solid meaning. Now that he could see what that bone would have looked like with flesh, with breath, with life.

No wonder the Dothraki decided to follow Daenerys the moment her dragons had hatched. .Their wonder was something to behold.

Missanderys was the size of a large cat; her horns were small, blunted at the ends, her eyes almost comically large for her head. She had small, needle-like teeth in her mouth, and her scales were a lovely, pearlescent sheen of silver with hints of white and opal running strong. She shimmered in the dull light of the north, bright against Daenerys' dark coloured tunics, complimenting her mother's ice-blonde hair as she brought up a hand and stroked the hatchling's head. Missanderys clicked in approval, leaning into the touch, as Drogon watched protectively over them both.  
Jon still wasn't over her words, though.

"She's not ... I don't understand"  
Daenerys shrugged, not looking at him, continuing to focus her attention on Missanderys for the moment.  
"I became pregnant, or at least, I noticed I was after I came back. I gave birth to an egg, a dragon's egg. You are the only man I have lain with in many, many months"  
"That doesn't-"  
"No-one was more shocked than I, I can assure you" Her tone slightly harder. Convincing the man he had fathered a dragon wasn't going to be easy at the best of times, and this was just going to be an uphill battle as Jon struggled not to have a stroke from all the information and shock being thrown at him, "But here she is. I didn't know if the egg would be a child or a dragon. But I vowed to love it anyway. And Missanderys came out"

"I don't expect you to believe me, Jon. Why would you. In what world would a person believe a woman would come back from the dead, and give birth to a dragon. People called me mad, or irrational, for naming myself the Mother of Dragons. They would assume after King's Landing I had fully devolved into the madness that caused some of my ancestors to drink wildfire to _become_ dragons. I don't know what caused this; all I know is that, in a world where a man and a woman can escape death, where I can walk in fire and not feel it's wrath, where dragons fly free and a chosen bloodline can ride on their backs ... suddenly, it does not seem so unlikely"  
"..." Jon looked down, considering this.  
"I heard from Varys that Renly Barathon, the brother of the Usurper, was killed by a shadow. A shadow that a Red Priestess gave birth to, conceived with Stannis Baratheon. People thought that mad, yet it was seen. It happened. Stannis wanted more shadows, and it was possible. Why is a dragon so hard to believe? But then, you cannot believe that people would lie about your heritage, so perhaps there is a larger block to be overcome first"  
"I don't need you to be a father, Jon. Missanderys has her mother, she has her brother. I just wanted you to know. You can keep that, or you can discard the ravings of a so-called madwoman. It is your choice"

Jon needed a moment to take this all in. To deal with the enormity of what he had just seen and heard, just at this point. But even with this, the question burned in his gut, and he looked up at the Queen of Dragonstone.  
"The Red Keep ... why?"  
Daenerys was tempted to ask why he had stabbed her again, but she supposed that she had to answer his question first. Keeping her gaze to Missanderys as she walked through her memories, she sighed through her nose.  
"Ever since the feast of Winterfell, I felt alone. I had seen Viserys die again. I had lost a friend, I had lost a lot of my people. The Unsullied, who would never see their family again, who were trained to never expect anyone to cry for them. The Dothraki who crossed the poison water for no other Khal. I had brought them to save the world ... and Winterfell felt as though I was intruding. A conqueror. I was supposed to be a friend, but I never felt more like an enemy. I drank my fill, and I could see many whispers, many looks of disgust. Of the Unsullied treated as dogs, of my dragons treated as a menace I would turn on them in a moment. That, alone, burned. But the more I stayed, the more I felt Winterfell wanted me out. Wanted me gone. So I obliged"  
"Sansa-"  
Daenerys wouldn't let him continue.  
"I began to see things. Whispers in the dark. Daggers in the night. Varys conspiring with a child to murder me. Gold in return for my blood. The death of Rhaegal ... A barter for the life of a monster Queen that Tyrion had told me time and again he had been abused by. I couldn't understand why he wanted her life spared, why he wanted his brother to save her and live in exile. She had slaughtered families with the very same barbaric alchemy intended for use by my father. What was bad for the Targaryens, was supposed to be fine for the Lannisters? I didn't understand"  
"King's Landing ... I saw things, Jon. Terrible things. Rhaegal being butchered and devoured by the people, the hanging and rape of my own corpse. A hundred, thousand spiders chanting to murder me, before I would _burn them all_. The Throne ... I looked at it in wonder. I looked at you like you were hysterical when you cried for the dead. I didn't understand then ... Do I regret it? _YES_. With all my heart. The Throne was golden to me, beautiful, but that was not real. Everything I had seen, was seeing, faded when you stabbed me"  
"Everything, everything was golden" Daenerys finally looked up, fixing Jon with her crystal-clear gaze, "When I finally came back from the dead, gold was all I could give. I vomited gold, I bled gold, I saw terrible things over and over and over again. Only when with Drogon, did I gain relief. He nursed me back to health. Fed me warm blood and fresh meat, comforted me with his fire. I purged the poison infecting me"  
"And the worst of it? _I know it was not just me_ "

Clarity could be a terrible thing. The more Jon listened to her story, the more memories sprung up in his mind. His own piss, he remembered, had glittered. It was the same with his men, talk of their spit having an off taste. Most blamed the ale brought down from Winterfell, he had drunk some but not much. Daenerys hadn't been much of a drinker, but she spent time with Tyrion planning the battle, and he made sure her cup was always full. The man who tried to attack a woman in King's Landing ... then tried to attack his King ...  
At the time, Jon thought he had been overcome with bloodlust or madness, but the sheer change had stunned him. The North had noble, good men when under good leaders. And this man had almost become a regicidal rapist, in a span of a few moments. He thought it was the influence of Daenerys' sudden madness at the sound of bellsong.   
Now he wondered if it were a spell that affected them all.  
"I don't blame you for thinking I had snapped" Daenerys' tone didn't really match that, but she continued, "After all, you have had people tell you for months that I am nothing but a mad whore, the descendant of madmen. Sister of a good man branded a rapist, and a stressed and traumatised, pathetic exile. Where was I to land? I had freed slaves, I had ended injustice. The world of Essos is harsh, Jon Snow. If you are noble or are a dreamer, they will beat and cut and drain that out of you. I try to keep a good heart, and they crucify children to threaten me. They burn my cities. They tell me, against my own mind, that I am evil and wild. If only I were the monster they thought I was, as my old Hand used to say. The same hand, who used to rant about the cruelty of his sister and King's Landing, but still wanted her saved. I never understood. The moment Viserys threatened my unborn child, he was dead. Drogo made sure of that. No matter what he meant to me"

"I understand what went wrong. What I don't understand is why you sought fit to murder me. Not arrest, or exile. But murder. Jon, you _know_ the feeling of a traitor's blade. I have caressed your wounds, it's the reason you are back in this world again. Even with such an act, you had justice served, and did not let a man away with it. You had time, you had thought. But why murder me?"  
"..." Jon had initially sought to tell her that she had, well, committed genocide. But her now-clear mind well knew that, and it seemed that she had either a blood fever or a poison, one that had all of them. The damage she could have done with a sword in such a condition was far different to the carnage she could do on dragonback. But she was right; he had a trial of sorts, why couldn't she have one? Yes, she had an army and a dragon, but justice was for everyone. No-one was to run or escape it.  
"I saw you as a monster" He whispered, looking down, "I didn't understand what had happened the moment the bells rang out. Suddenly, all was fire and death. The Dothraki, the Unsullied, they would follow your path no matter what. But when my own men went on a slaughter without my word ... the world collapsed. It just seemed that everything Tyrion had been telling me, Sansa had been telling me, came to pass. I thought you had become mad. The world was gold for me as well. I never ... I didn't want to do that to you. I thought it was my only choice. What I did was cowardly, it was something that I was willing to die for. I murdered you, the woman I loved ..."

"Did you love me?" Daenerys' anger rose a little, "Your love died the moment you learned we shared blood"  
"Did it not bother you?" Jon was a little astounded. Daenerys rose an eyebrow, and Jon half-expected her to trot out the same old 'Targaryens Marry Their Own' excuse, but instead, she pointed out the obvious.  
"Rhaegar's blood might flow within you, but you are a complete Stark. You have no scales, you are a Direwolf of Winterfell, as pure as Sansa or Arya or Bran. We never knew each other as family, we never grew up together. Sansa and Arya are not your sisters, by that rule. They are your cousins. Would you marry them?"  
Jon's face told her that he felt as though he were going to be sick, and she pressed the point.  
"Your family is not ruled by your blood, but by whom you consider yours. Is my blood in Drogon? No, but he is my son, as much as Missanderys is my daughter. Blood of my blood, as the Dothraki say. We may not be blood related, but we are family. We are part of the same Khalasar. And if you say that mine is closer than the Starks, then you lie on the blood of a thousand Starks before you"  
"You are a Stark. I am a Targaryen. We could have ruled together for a spell, a King in the North and a Queen in the South. Did you know my plans afterwards? Did you want to know"  
"You were going to free the world" Jon had heard, had it translated, and Tyrion took it as the final straw. Knowing his brother and sister were dead, his plan failed, he saw this as Daenerys putting on a sabaton to crush the world in the name of freeing slaves.  
"I was going to rule as Queen and break the wheel. I was going to deliver Westeros against the constant change of Kings. I promised Yara Greyjoy that the Seastone Seat would be only for the Iron Islands to rule, in their own name. Dorne would have its Princes and Princesses. Each Kingdom, once united, would return to their local people. Over all, would be a council that split the power between them. Lords and Ladies could not be fattened by the suffering of their people with the threat of the King to keep them in line. I would break it into a house of many, ruled by the people, to speak in their names"

"And I? I would find my place in the quiet. Not a Princess, not a Queen, not a target and final member of a dying House. I brought the Targaryens back from the dead, and I would rest. I would find my house, one with a red door, and life in quiet peace. No wars, no fighting, no trechery. No daggers waiting to claim a crown. Just a home, with Drogon, and I had hoped ... with you"  
"Once the Dothraki returned to Essos, I would have given the Unsullied their own name and freedom to keep their march to free slaves onwards, or retire in honour if they wished. I wanted to _rest_ , Jon. After everything. After the War for the Dawn and righting the wrong I saw in Westeros. Just to be at peace ..."

It sounded so close to what Jon had wanted after he had come back to life, it was eerie. It could have been wonderful ...

"You are a weak man, Jon" Daenerys was in no mood to pull punches, "You let the whispers of Sansa and Tyrion and Varys turn your head. I was weak, I let poison infect me and overcome everything I had ever wanted to do. I butchered King's Landing, something that I had wanted to avoid at every. Single. Cost. I never, _NEVER_ wanted that. I never wanted it in Essos, I never wanted it here. But I cannot undo it. And I will not deny what I did, spellbound or no. We are weak, and we have come back again. Now there is a question"

"... What?" Jon whispered, looking up to her again.

"What do we do now"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, I make eggo, says She  
> U wot, replied He


	21. A King and Queen

"I ... I need a moment. To think"

Daenerys looked at him, silent, before closing her eyes and nodding softly. Jon stood, his legs weak, and wandered off from her and her dragons. 

His steps were faltering, his mind in chaos, he didn't know what to do, to say, to think. He started his journey as the son in the shadows, the bastard of Winterfell, brought up with his siblings under a cloak of never mentioning his past, never questioning his presence, but with the glare of Catelyn Tully ever harsh on his head, like the blistering rays of a scorching midday sun. He had joined the Night's Watch, thinking it a place to earn honour, as his Uncle Benjen made his name there. Little did he know it was a cage for rapists and disgraced criminals, yet he refused to accept it was a prison in which he would do nothing but rot. He rose, he became their leader, he formed alliances and fought the undead and traitors alike. He died, he lived, he took back Winterfell in the name of the fallen Rickon Stark, he had done so much ...

He became a King, he bent the knee, he became an assassin of the Queen he bend the knee to and bedded. Just who was he anymore? Certainly not the same person he started out as. Not the person he thought he would become. 

The White Wolf of Winterfell, some called him. They were all wolves, all the children of Eddard Stark. Robb the Young Wolf, himself the White, Sansa the Red Wolf, Arya the Little Wolf - though she would be annoyed at the name personally -with ill-fated Rickon being the Black Wolf to match Shaggydog, and Bran the Green-Eyed Wolf. King Jon, brother of King Robb, and ... sadly, brother of Queen Sansa. He never saw her crowned, he doubted he would have been invited without potential death for the second time at the hands of the other Northerners. If not for his murder of Daenerys, since they wouldn't have seen it as a bad thing, then certainly Yara Greyjoy could have sent someone to take out his throat in her stead. She hadn't forgiven him, neither she nor Gendry Baratheon would be in the mood to forgive.  
 _Would they forgive me if they learned Daenerys was alive?_  
 _Would Lady Catelyn stop hating you after learning you're not Father's bastard?_ An irritated voice of common sense noted at the back of his mind, pointing out the absurdity of what he had thought. He wondered what she would have made of him becoming King. Being nominated and elevated to the position by the North that was supposed to shun him, and supported by a daughter that should have contested it. At least, until the arrival of Daenerys made her think more ambitiously, more bloodily. He didn't understand _why_ she turned on him as she did ... She had done everything in her power to protect him, she didn't want him going South to treat with Daenerys, she made damn sure that Littlefinger couldn't sink his teeth into him. What changed? What made her focus on herself rather than the people? A rival Queen? Jon bending the knee? He said he didn't regret doing so, and he still didn't; he found Daenerys' almost-snapped demands for him to yield bemusing and tiring. Someone else making demands when there was something greater to fight. Another cost he had to pay. It wasn't until he listened to the climate and culture of Essos that he started to understand her need to strike first, made sure he didn't see her as weak before they got to know each other and realise they were firm, but noble-hearted people.

_If only things had been different ..._

To give him a break from his own thoughts, he looked over his shoulder, looking at Daenerys with Drogon and the little silver dragon. It should have reminded him of the dead, but oddly, it didn't. It's eyes were a sapphire colour, rather than ice-blue, and her scales held pastel-tinted shades of other colours in the spectrum as the poor light rippled across them. She was climbing on Drogon's muzzle, grooming the face of the gigantic beast and picking off dead skin, before trying to gnaw on his horns with her miniscule teeth, much to her mother's amusement. She was so small, only the size of a cat, and Drogon dwarved the whales he had sometimes seen in the Shivering Sea when they came to the surface to blow plumes of mist from their heads to breathe. Between them was Daenerys, beautiful as always, watching with a gentle smile and warmth in her eyes. She was so breathtaking, so radiant, men followed her without a word. She had that way, that air that lead people to follow her, to want to protect and love her, to help her to greatness. Mens aid that Jon inspired the same thing in others as well, though not for love, but for honour and courage. Both were born to lead in their own way. Both had power that was manipulated, both suffered bad ends for their noble nature being twisted away.  
He hadn't forgotten that Daenerys had told him he was the father of the little dragon. Oh, he absolutely hadn't forgotten. But he was nowhere near ready to begin understanding it either.  
 _What do we do now?_.  
Good question.

He rose, walking back towards her and sitting across from her a respectful distance away. Almost automatically, Daenerys took hold of Missanderys again, hiding her away in the safety of her cloak, as Drogon rose his head slightly and growled. Both were on alert, both ready to kill to defend the hatchling. Jon swallowed, trying to only look at Daenerys.  
"Dany. I ... I don't know what to do"  
She rose a brow at him.  
"What do you think we should do?" His voice was humble, seeking her council almost in the way she had sought his in the wars against the Lannisters, albeit this was going to be rather odd council.   
Daenerys paused, looking down at the ground, before considering her words.  
"I was poisoned, and I did terrible things. You murdered me, and I don't doubt you were also poisoned. By who, I am not sure. But I am willing to believe our mutual enemies had a hand in it. I loved you, Jon, but I am sure you can understand that murder is something I can't forgive easily"  
He would laugh in any other situation. The fact he was the murderer, and the heat of Drogon's breath so close to them, made such a laugh die before it was even thought of.  
"I gave birth to a dragon. You're the father of that dragon. We have a child together. You never wanted to father a bastard, but dragons know nothing of bastards. I am willing to live without you and your help. I can live with my children alone. I am not willing to risk their lives for someone who has killed me before and could do it again once my enemies know I am alive"  
"How did you know that I wouldn't run and tell everyone?" Jon asked. It wasn't a challenge, but he did wonder.  
"I like to believe there is some nobility in you left, King-in-the-North. Unless" She rose a brow, "You want to prove otherwise?"  
He thought about it. It would benefit no-one, and it would damn whatever pieces of soul he had left. He shook his head.  
"If you die again, nothing will change. Everyone has what they want, at least, it looks that way. Sansa is Queen, Bran is King ... Tyrion is in King's Landing, everyone is where they want to be"  
"And you?"  
Jon paused.  
"I ... did want to live Beyond the Wall, be free of duty and leadership and all the politics that go with it. Live quietly with people that respected me. I ... guess you are where you want to be. With your dragons, wherever you are".  
"... Yes, I wanted to be with my children. Once I gave up the Throne for the people to rule, I was going to simply find my own home, with my dragons, and have peace and stability. I have a home of sorts now, I have Drogon and Missanderys" She chose to leave out the other eggs, one word about them and Valyria would be ripped apart by fortune hunters desperate to sell them, "But I wanted you in that home too. Did you want me in that home?"  
"Dany, we can't. I mean, I murdered you!" Jon finally lost his composure again, "I did a terrible thing, we both did terrible things! And you are alive again, with a baby dragon, and ... I just don't see how we can be together!"

"... We can, if I allow it, and you want it" Daenerys offered. Jon stared, stunned.  
"I-"  
"What you did was unforgivable, yes. Everything happened so quickly and so terribly. But if we love each other, and we work though it, do you think we could have a home together?"  
Jon paused, lost in the thought of it.  
"Just ... just us?"  
"You. Me. Your wolf. Drogon. Missanderys. Any children we may have together. The future we talked about, the one we whispered before we fell asleep in each other's arms. You told me about growing up in Winterfell, feeling like an outsider, with few roots. I was an exile most of my life, then livestock to be auctioned off in exchange for an army. We lost ones we loved, we've been betrayed by those close to us. People call us to lead, people do terrible things to stop us leading. But still, we march on. I want to stop marching, I want to live for just me. No Unsullied - however much I love them all - and no Meereen. No Masters. No crowns or bloodlines. Just Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons. And Jon Snow, the White Wolf"

"Do you want a future with me?"


	22. Upon Horn Hill

"Has the King found the dragon yet?"  
Samwell's amiable tone almost sounded too pleasant for his title of Grand Maester. One expected him to be a wisened old man, worn from life and weary of the world around him. Sam, on the hand, was a very, _very_ young Maester and an even younger Grand Maester. Tyrion was so used to hearing the halting, breathy voice of the elderly Pycelle that it took him a moment to remeber who now wore the heavy chains. One almost could wonder why Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven, would even need a Maester when he himself had the history of Westeros under his wings at any given moment.

"Not yet" Tyrion noted, shaking his head, "The dragon proves elusive, despite his size"  
"I've looked into books about dragonkind" Sam pulled out one such book from the pile on his desk, "The best place to look would be anywhere volcanic, anywhere warm enough that they would want to make a nest"  
"I rather think the King has thought of that" Tyrion put it to him, deciding to change the subject, "How goes the plans for the sewerworks?"  
"Ah, they are ... progressing steadily" Sam nodded, but the wideness of his eyes and the nervous edge to his smile had Tyrion staring.  
"... But? ..." He prompted.  
"The, ah, the men say that they have lost seven workers over the past two weeks. They've found some ancient war weapons down below, and they need to be extracted carefully. We're a bit behind"  
"How far"  
"Two months"  
Tyrion rubbed his face, "And what war weapons are stopping them, exactly?"  
"... Wildfire"

Tyrion stopped rubbing his face, and stared in open shock.  
"What"  
"Caches of Wildfire, deep in the sewer tunnels. A man didn't know what the barrels were, assumed they were illegal lots of ale. Tapped on a cork to get a taste and ... well, his widow was grateful to at least get half a hand back for burial"  
"Where was this?!"  
"Near the dragonpit, Lord Tyrion"  
Tyrion openly puzzled what this meant. The Dragonpit had been empty for a long time, this he knew, and the Targaryens had forbidden anything being built on the site, declaring it an area of historical importance. It was hard to see the Mad King, even in his worst fits of delusion, agreeing to arm the area. No matter how desperate, no matter how bad, especially since the Lannister and Baratheon armies would have been coming through the gate, and the caches would have been better there-  
"There was a lion on the casks"  
"I didn't-"  
"I know" Sam quickly interjected, "I know, the alchemists who make it swear it wasn't you that ordered them. It was Queen Cersei. She ... well, the guards say that she had planned to let the fire go if Daenerys had tried to attack her at the meeting in the Dragonpit"

Tyrion could do no more than simply think this over. He went over the meeting in his mind, he thought about how they had come into the pit. Lannisters. Targaryens. Starks. Unsullied. Queensguard. All with spears and swords ready at each other's throat under the guise of a treaty and overseen by the eyes of the Lannister lions upon their banners, and Drogon the living Targaryen banner.   
Cersei was cruel. She was malicious. She was spiteful. She thought herself more clever than others. She had brought a house to near-extinction in the name of pride and power with wildfire before. Had she been so willing to doom absolutely everyone in that pit of Daenerys brought the fury of her House upon her.  
Looking out of the window, over to the still-standing ruin of the Great Sept of Balor that had been hollowed by the massacre Cersei had planned with Qyburn and many little nimble birds, it suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched.  
 _I am now at a loss as to who had the greater taste for fire_ , Tyrion noted, taking a sip of wine. Orlenna Tyrell had been right when she told Jaime that Cersei was a disease. _And I regret the part I played in spreading it_. Cersei's actions still caused problems and terror no matter living or dead. The ripples of her actions will echo for a long, long time.  
"The work is back on, though" Sam attempted to lighten the mood, with Tyrion almost in no mind to hear it. Their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Little Sam, fussing and protesting about an afternoon nap, in the other room.  
"Settled in well, have they?" Referring to Sam's small family, "How is Lady GIlly?"  
"She's doing really well" Sam brightened visiblly when talking about his ... well, not wife, but wife in all but name, "Jon's getting bigger by the day"  
"Convinced the Citadel to let you marry her, have you?"  
"Well, no ... Maesters are supposed to be chaste, and never marry or have children. Similar to the Night's Watch, really"  
"And you've already broken those vows"  
"I don't regret it" Sam immediately defended his decision, having already had his fill of judgement from his late father, "Gilly is the most wonderful woman in the world, and I'm so proud to be Little Sam and Little Jon's father"  
"That's good. A good woman is a treasure to have" Tyrion chose to be kind, reminded for a brief and painful moment of his own first marriage, "You could always ask the King to give a special dispensation for marriage"  
"The Conclave will be very reluctant to honour it" Sam knew that better than anyone, having watched them dismiss reports of armies of dead men from Beyond the Wall despite his eyewitness account, "But it couldn't hurt, I suppose ... But I can't give Gilly a name, not really. Maesters give up their names"  
"I'm sure she would be fine with just Lady Gilly, wouldn't she" Tyrion pointed out, "She didn't come here with a name. What has changed? And your sister and mother in Horn Hill would surely still welcome their nephews and grandsons home at any time"  
Sam took this in well, and smiled at the idea of summers in Horn Hill with his family, together and happy.  
"You're very kind today, Lord Tyrion"  
"Am I not always kind?" Tyrion sounded amused as he poured himself another wine.  
"I mean ... lately, you've been very .. sharp with people"  
"I am under a lot of stress, young Samwell" Tyrion pointed out, "Being a Hand is a thankless task. And if I should choose to lighten that task by reminding you that you have a good family, so be it"  
"I just wish father could have met Little Jon"

Tyrion paused in his sip.

"Yes ... well ... War tears apart families so easily"  
"It wasn't war" Sam pointed out, his face darkening, "It was murder"  
"Oh?"  
"Daenerys burned my father and brother. She told me herself"  
"Did she?" Tyrion's gaze became more steely, and the two looked at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.  
"Where you-"  
"I was there, yes. Of course I was there; I was Hand of the Queen, and the defeated army belonged to my family"  
"So, did she? Kill my father and brother?"  
"They refused to bend the knee. So, yes"  
"That's it? They were executed for that?!"  
Tyrion rose a brow.  
"They were offered a chance to bend the knee. They were offered the chance to take the black. They refused"  
"My brother was murdered as well!"  
"Your brother was _executed_ " Tyrion corrected him, "Because he refused to walk away from your father and his position. The argument was with Lord Tarly, not your brother. He refused, despite Lord Tarly's objections"  
"You let her kill my family" Sam outright accused him, causing Tyrion to slam his cup down.

"Oh _spare_ me your wet heart, Tarly! Your 'noble' father betrayed his liege Lord and committed treason the moment Cersei offered him a fatter purse for turning on the Tyrells. And it was Cersei, I'll remind you, that had Lord Tyrell and your _Queen_ Margary slaughtered. Randyll should have turned on Cersei in the name of Tyrell House. Instead, he was offered Highgarden if he could capture it, and he took that offer! You bleat about his death, when I know for a fact he wanted you _dead_ , Samwell. What Lord sends his oldest son and heir to the Wall if he didn't want him dead? Don't think I don't know the contempt he had for you; you wouldn't have asked Daenerys' forgiveness in stealing your family sword if you didn't think there would be consequences for your actions. Your father hated you, every minor Lord knew that. Some didn't even _know_ about you. And yet, here you sit, accusing Daenerys of doing something vile, after he turned against his House and thought he was defending the relmn against a 'foriegn whore' that was born on Dragonstone. Don't tell me what is noble in this rotting, fetid, decicant world. We _long ago_ threw out nobility in the name of coin and glory"

Sam sat there, battered and bruised, but his brow still low and furious. Tyrion stood, looking at the Maester with disgust.

"The moment you learn to put away family that treat you like pigshit, the easier it gets"  
"It didn't look like you learned" Sam's bitter words followed, as Tyrion let himself out to the sound of a slammed door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked Sam. But he can eat a dick in S8 as well. What the actual fuck.  
> [This amazing post](https://ladykakata.tumblr.com/post/184348587404/have-a-nice-day-source-daennerysnation-on) points out ALL the problems with Samwell's little bitchfit over Dany burning his abusive mother and father. Seriously, fuck you Sam.


	23. We Drink Gold

"You shouldn't forgive me"  
"I didn't say that I had" Daenerys pointed out, with an arched eyebrow. Jon still couldn't understand why she had brought him here, outside of wanting to ask him the obvious.  
"Then ... then I don't know what we should do"  
"What are you doing right now?"  
"... Apart from talking to you?"  
She gave him a weary look. He offered a half-smile that quickly dissolved away as an apology for such a terrible joke.  
"I am living North of the Wall, with the Freefolk and Ghost. Just ... living free"  
"If I offered, would you live with me?"  
Jon almost said yes, it almost slipped out his mouth before he could think about it. But the looking presence of Drogon tempered him, and his eyes flicked from the dragon to Daenerys and back again.  
"I ... I would like that. But I don't know how you could ever trust me again. I don't know if you would go for the Iron Throne again. As much as my family did wrong, I don't want them in danger, Dany. I don't want Bran or Sansa hurt"  
"But hurting me was fine" She sniped, and he winced but held onto his ground.  
"I cannot say sorry enough, I know what I did was a cowardly thing to do, and I should have been executed for it. I don't understand why I wasn't, I don't understand how everything went so terrible. Everyone went bloodthirsty at King's Landing. My men and yours. I know your men are loyal to the core, but I don't understand why the North decided on something so barbaric"  
"I have my thoughts, Jon. I have had a lot of time to think. I've already said that gold was something that said we have enemies deeper than those with lions on their collar. Lions have been the death of dragons and wolves alike. I was a fool for thinking Tyrion would assist me. He seemed humbled when I made him Hand of the Queen, I believed his stories of how much of a monster he thought Cersei was. Don't misunderstand me; Cersei WAS a monster. But he wanted to save her? To what end?"

Jon thought of Sansa for a brief moment.

"Everyone in my Court said they believed in my cause and claim. I was the rightful heir of King Aerys II, I was the last child, the Princess of Dragonstone. I had that. I knew the moment people heard your claim, they would switch over, and I knew you were immediately going to be thrown into greater danger than you had in the North. Have you ever been South of the Neck before you came to treat with me? I knew you became King because your people asked. Because they needed someone who knew the danger they faced from the North. And I knew you wore the crown with duty, not destiny, not a sense of blood. Orlenna Tyrell told me many stories of the South. So did Tyrion. So did Varys. They all warned me about the slaughtering ground I was walking into, to prepare me for dangers at the end of a pike as well as a fealty's kiss. You? _They would have been butchered alive_. Was it greedy of me to think of my claim first? Yes, because I have spent my life towards this goal. And I knew that greedier hands would hand it to a man who didn't want it"

"After all of this? I know that I have few friends I can call my friends while I wear a crown. Missandei, given to me as a gift from Masters, but I asked her to come with me. Grey Worm, thankful I freed him and the Unsullied and decided to follow me as well. I had no crown. I had a claim they didn't understand the meaning of in Essos. But they understood and loved me. And I have lost anyone I could have given my love due to war. Apart from my dragons. And my dragon's love brought me back"

Drogon rumbled, affirming this.

"No more. Crowns. Kings. Queens. Power. Lust. Gold. _Gold_. I don't care for it. Not anymore. Not ever again. The pursuit of the Iron Throne cost me a son, a husband, two dragons, my friend, my men, my _life_. After that, a man has his fill of power, don't you think?"

"I have said it before. I shall say it again. I want a home, Jon. With my children, scaled or flesh. And I wanted to love again after losing Drogo. You wanted to love again after Ygritte, the woman kissed by fire. Am I not a woman kissed by fire? Are you not an undefeated warrior? I want to have a home, something I have not had since I was very small. We could have a home together, away from people who try to place us on the road to power as a shield and sword"

"If I offered, would you come?"

Jon looked down, looked at the fur on his boots, looked at the toes of the oversized sandles on Daenerys' delicate toes, looked at the monstrous claws of Drogon. It would be a dream, something he would have desperately wanted. To have a home, and a wife, far away in the wilds. Where there were no bastards, no wights, no danger and no swords. Just a woman to love and children to treasure ...

"Do I have to choose?"  
"Not right now" She stood up, keeping Missanderys close to her chest underneath her cloak, "When I am ready, I will ask for you to come. If you say no, then I wish you well, Jon Snow. I will raise Missanderys to know your name, if never see your face. If you say yes, we can marry under the stars and be man and wife until the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. We can have many children, or only a few. I never thought I could have any again. Now that she is here ..." Looking down at Missandery's sleek face hidden in her cloak, and smiling, "Anything can happen"

Jon stood. She didn't want an answer now, and that he was grateful for. He didn't know how to process all of this, but there were some questions he needed answers to, and he wasn't going to find them here.

"I will have Drogon take you back from where you came. Then I will hide again from the world. I do not need to tell you that I do not want to be found before I am ready. Before I make a home big enough for at least my family. Any man who dares to think the last Targaryen rides again will meet with ash and failure. This, I promise"  
Jon almost asked her about that, but Drogon rising to his feet made him reconsider. The dragon opened his wings, getting ready to take flight, as Daenerys stepped forward.  
"Goodbye, Jon Snow of House Stark" She pressed a feather-light kiss to his lips, the warmth and the scent of her almost causing Jon to drown in memories, before pulling away again, "I will see you again. In this life, or the next. Your choice"

He was tempted to make his choice right then and there, to leave behind the world and go with her. But she was clear she needed time to prepare for his choice, and the press of Longclaw on his hip reminded him that he had his own obligations. He nodded, savouring the taste of her kiss and ruing the coldness seeping onto his lips to steal away the warmth left by her, as Drogon picked him up without much ceremony and flew him back North ...

* * *

"My lord, Jon Snow is at the Gate"

Corvin Bracke, the Acting Lord Commander, looked up from his papers in total bemusement.

"Wh ... why is here there?"

"I assume he wants in" The deadpan response, causing Corvin to give him an irritated glare.  
"I mean, why does he want in"  
"He didn't say, he just demanded to be let in. Should we let him in?"  
"Listen, I've learned that when Jon Snow thinks there's somewhere else he should be, it's probably the better idea to allow it" He stood, pushing his chair away and putting on his cloak, "Ask the cook to make a small meal for him, and some ale"  
"We ran out of food last week" The man reminded him, "What the fuck should we serve him?"  
"Serve him fucking newblood foreskins for all I care, just bring us _something_ "  
"I hope he brings food"  
"I just hope he isn't bringing dead things"  
"I'd eat a wight" The man grumbled, following Corvin down the stairway.  
"I know what you'd do to dead men, and 'eat' is only one of your options"  
Not for the first time, he wondered just how much trouble he could get into if he were to kick the Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch in the back of the head.

* * *

"Lord Snow. It's a pleasure to see you again"

Jon looked up from the table at the Lord Commander, his dark brown eyes almost black in the torchlight. Corvin had to double-check what he said, just in case he managed to call him a baby-fucking cunt by accident or something similar.

"... What?"  
"I'm not a Lord, just call me Jon"  
"... No offence meant" Corvin was bemused, but decided that if Jon was going to be in a funny mood, he was just going to roll along with it, "What brings you to Castle Black?"  
"Did Sansa bring you more ale?" Jon remembered it from the last time he journeyed here, to see Sansa for the first time as Queen, and the last time as his sister.  
"Aye" Corvin was on guard now, "Was ... that meant for you? She gave it as a gift to the Watch personally, if-"  
"Is that from the same supply?" Jon nodded at the flagon of ale on the table, beside a plate of rather side horsemeat and overly-green potatoes.   
"Yes, we're running low, but-"  
Without another word, Jon picked up the flagon, and looked into the bottom of the ale. Pausing, and noting that the tankard was made of horn, he brought a spoon from the side of his dish and lifted a small amount out, holding it on top of a candle burning nearby. His gaze was intense, and Corvin was almost afraid to ask what he was doing.  
"How many have drank the ale from Winterfell?"   
Corvin paused, thinking.  
"I'd think most of us. I drink some before bed"  
"Has anyone become sick?"  
"... We've all had the shits for a while, aye" Corvin raised a brow, "Is the ale bad?"  
Jon said nothing. Corvin slowly, quietly, pushed his cloak back slightly and sat on the bench opposite the former King in the North. He watched the spoon for a while, watching the ale come to a boil, before Jon poured what was left onto the edge of his plate, before repeating the process with a new spoonful.  
"Did you fight at Winterfell?"  
Corvin shook his head.  
"I was in prison when it happened. Called up to Castle Black once the wars were all over"  
"What were you in prison for?"  
"With ... respect, it's a blank slate here"  
"If you don't want to answer, that's fine" Another spoonful poured out, another added to the flame.  
"... I fucked my father's new wife"  
"They put you in prison for that?"  
"No, for shoving him in front of a cart when he caught me with my arse out and cock in in the stables"  
Jon had to surpress a laugh, terrible as it was, as he tried his next spoonful.  
"... What are you doing" Corvin finally asked, as he was growing impatient with Jon's attempts at alchemy. Jon ignored his question, continuing to add to the thick syrup that threatened to touch the now-cold meat on his plate. Once he was satisfied, he poked at the syrup, breaking the sugary crust forming on top with cooling in the frigid night air.

He brought the candle closer, peering at it intently. Corvin tried to look closer himself, but didn't see what Jon saw. 

Gold. Speckles of gold, appearing and disappearing like twinkling stars. So small a man would not see them, would not taste them. Fine as dust, they were only more obvious once he had boiled away the water in the ale, and was keenly looking for them.   
His heart stopped. This wine had whatever was causing his golden piss in it. Surely it was the same poison that affected Daenerys. This was only in a few spoonfuls, but multiply that with the number of men and the number of barrels ... Did it get worse with heat? That ... would explain Daenerys, unless she was also being fed the poison directly, as she was never much of a drinker.

Jon abruptly stood up, frightening the life out of Corvin.

"This ale is poisoned. Pour it down the drains, refuse any Sansa sends you"  
"Wait, what?!" Corvin couldn't believe his ears, leaping to his feet, "But-!"  
"Someone has tampered with this ale" Jon took the flagon and upturned it, splashing it onto the worn grasses and rushes on the floor, "Drink none of it, and take none from Winterfell. Send for some from White Harbour, bill it to Sansa if you must"  
"Should someone tell the Queen?"  
"I have a feeling she already knows"

Corvin stared after the 998th Lord Commander as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door loudly behind him.  
"... What was that about?" A guard peered into the room. Corvin shook his head.  
"Tell the cook to piss out the ale. It's been giving us the shits"  
"What ISN'T giving us the shits round here?"  
"Fair point ..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to reiterate that this fic is done in one-shot sessions (as you can see from the spelling errors and the scattershit approach to grammer) and is peppered with references to the books, show and the abandoned S8 outline that I have read elsewhere that had quite a few damn differences, plus it's a personal pro-Dany vent-fic. Does it mean I should be immune from criticism? Absolutely not. But if you are wondering if I care about this piece ... Well, originally I was going to delete the opening tester chapter and never think about it again. But here we are.
> 
> I love Daenerys, I love Jonaerys, and I am excited as all hell for the Reign of the Dragon prequel. TEAM TARG 4 LYFE.
> 
> Also, I didn't expect to like Corvin Bracke; he was just supposed to be a stand-in for Sansa to talk to. But fuck, I'm beginning to like him. [He'd have this kind of sign on his desk ](https://pics.me.me/fucker-in-charge-of-you-fucking-fucks-my-boss-is-29350629.png) . Fun fact; he's both named after the [corvids](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corvidae) , and [Corryvreckan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gulf_of_Corryvreckan), a whirlpool in Scotland.


	24. Memories of Ages Past

Where does a fallen Queen go, when she is without a known coin and a face so known that many would kill her for the slightest reason and the hardest coin?

Daenerys had to think hard as to where she would go. As much as she loved Drogon, she knew that she couldn't rely on him forever. She had to let him be free and fly wherever he may go. She had to find her own bread and wine, and she needed to be sure she could feed the many mouths that could come from the brazier, still smouldering with fallen bracken and grasses growing wild in her ancestral homeland.

Any lifestock that remained after the fall of Valyria, or had come from run-aground ships, had been devoured by Drogon or the Stone Men. Daenerys noted that none had been ever since she landed here; Drogon made sure that their terminal illness was very much helped along it's final path with dragonfire.  
Sure, she had never raised her own stock, but before Winterfell, she had never wielded a sword either. She had to learn to be her own person, without handmaidens or soldiers to watch her. She had Drogon, and that she would never forget. She didn't want to risk his life flying across the world either. While she doubted that every city would have scorpion bolts, she didn't want to risk his flesh. Not when there was only one other dragon in the world.

Missanderys ... she had been saited with meat and milk from Daenerys' breast. Whenever Daenerys nursed her, she thought of her own mother, Rhaella. The woman who had died on her birthing bed to the roar of storms outside, and the spill of Targaryen blood in King's Landing. She wondered what her mother would make of her now. Her father. She heard terrible stories, from Viserys, but also from Varys. Her father was a beast to her mother, their union was not happy, and she could only have wanted her mother to find the same strength that she had. When the blood of the dragon rose up, and caused her to lash out at Viserys' abuse.  
But it's not that simple. Not in King's Landing. Not when the hand of a King has more weight than the crown of a Queen.  
Crown ... when Viserys had to sell Mother's crown, that broke him. She remembered the hysterical, fierce tears when he was forced to part with it for a fraction of what the crown was worth. It was something that was theirs, it should have been something they would never have to sell. But they did ... whatever plans Viserys had for it, to put it on the head of a politically advantageous wife, or on Daenerys herself, that was dashed.

_I wonder if I may find it again ..._

It was a thought. With the supposed 'death' of the Targaryen line, or at least the _pure_ line, the crown may be worth more. Musing, she made plans to visit a place she had not been for a very long time ...

-

Volantis. The greatest port in the world, one of the jewels in Essos. Daenerys had spent time here, back in the harsh days after their flight from Dragonstone and the death of their early protector. As she walked the streets, her ice-blond hair smudged and dyed with a mix of mud and ash to mask it, she noted that there were still many slaves. The tattoos, of varying symbols and placements, were a testiment to that. As much as it burned her stomach, she had to know that she was now without an army and exposing herself would be suicidal. Her overgrown clothing was a good match for the general mix of the marketplace, people of all levels of the economy mixed freely here, and she didn't stand out much. Close to her breast was a bag of coins and small jewels; anything larger would attract a lot of attention.  
Incense, warm spices and perfumed flesh intermingled with roasted meat and manure, Daenerys watched in wonder as an elephant passed her, smiling at the sight of the great animal. Her sandles brought in a lot of dust between her toes, so new clothing would be a priority.

The first stall had prices and silks that were too rich for her. Another served ... questionable tastes, though the Ghiscari gown took her back to her time just after her husband died. Finding a stall that had boots, she had to gamble that they spoke the Common Tongue.  
"Excuse me?" She waved over the stallholder, relieved to see that it was a woman, though wary of the harsh eyes on her, "May I try some boots?"  
"..."  
Daenerys had to guess not. She was fluent in Valyrian, but did not want to risk being seen as the blood of Old Valyria. She mixed up her Common Tongue with Low Valyrian, deliberately mispronouncing words to seem more novice. The woman seemed a touch impatient, but the more Daenerys added to her order, the more relaxed the woman became.  
"Pay?" The woman managed what was probably one of the only Common words she knew. Daenerys nodded. Reaching into her breast, she pulled out a handful of gold coins.  
The woman shook her head, " _Honours only_ "  
Daenerys frowned. She understood her clearly, but pretended that there was a misunderstanding, "No, gold? See?" She handed the woman a coin, letting her feel the weight of it. She had been careful to pick pieces of melted gold that didn't show that they were from Valyria, "Good gold, heavy. _Pure_ Test? _Test, if you like?_ "  
" _Where did you get it?_ " The woman was VERY sceptical now, raising a brow at Daenerys.  
"... _Get?_ You want more?" Offering a further two for a better look. Again, she understood her, but hoped the cover of a naive foreigner would serve her well.  
" _This is good gold, where did you get it? Did you steal it?_ "  
Daenerys was close to being affronted by the idea of stealing from her own homeland. A cool head, one she had showed when Kraznys mo Nakloz, the Good Master of the Unsullied, chose to insult her constantly when he thought she didn't understand him, let her keep her cover.  
" _Good, yes?_. My husband died, his mother took all of his property, threw me out. This was my wedding gift, _wedding price_. I am a widow now, _widow_ , I need clothes. I can buy, yes? To attract a new husband? _Marriage?_ "  
This seemed to be understood. Daenerys was technically right; she WAS a widow, she was the widow of Khal Drogo. She would consider the gold a funeral gift, and she wanted to attract prosperity, not a husband. She had had her fill of mates for now.  
The woman wrapped up her purchases, but Daenerys opted to put on the boots right away. Her soiled and cracked feet felt relief being encased in the fine calf leather, and she smiled.  
" _Thank you_ " She bowed her head, offering twenty more pieces of gold. The woman grabbed her wrist, and Daenerys was seized with panic for a moment.  
" _Go to the stall five rows away. They make love potions. Buy one, and you will have a man in seven moons. That's how I met my husband"_ She smirked, nodding over to a man standing at the spice stall next to them, _" _He didn't want me because he thought I was poor. I put the potion in his soup. Six nights later, he proposed_ "  
_Daenerys let a few moments elapse before smiling and nodding, pretending she was taking a while to translate, giggling as she glanced over to the spice merchant.

With a wave, Daenerys left with her package of new clothing, her heart lighter for it. This was going very well, and she had the courage to shop for spices, sweetmeats, some cooking equipment ...  
And then she saw a stall for jewellery.  
While she did not need any, and the only jewels she still had was a pearl and silver ring belonging to her mother that she left safe in Valyria, she was overtaken with curiosity. Walking towards the stall with her basket of goods strapped to her back, she approached the seller. _  
_ " _Excuse me_ " She felt her clear success at purchases allowed her a bit more freedom of language, "Do you have anything from Westeros? _Westeros_?"  
The seller looked as though she were slightly mad to ask, since Essos was known for it's beautiful goods, but she persisted.  
" _Westeros? King? Queen? Lord? Lady? South? South, Sun, snake. West? Lion? North, wolf? Fish?_ " She paused, looking away and waving her hands, pretending to try and remember words when really, she wanted to ask if they had any Targaryen items without actually asking that, " _Flowers?_ I want something from Westeros, my mother-in-law is from there, to stop her hurting me. I am a widow, _widow_ , she took my husband's lands and threw me out. She hates me, _she hate_. I want a gift for her? _Gift?_ "  
The seller seemed amused that she wanted a gift for a mother-in-law that threw her out. Really, Daenerys could have been talking about the continent itself, or Sansa her potential sister-in-law. It didn't matter. The seller showed her a few trinkets, jewels, gold, bracelets, necklaces. Daenerys shook her head.  
"Something bigger, bigger. Maybe, maybe something for a princess? _Princess?_ "  
The seller then shook his head, " _I have no more. If you want something better, something rare, go to the stalls near the back. They can get what you want. Beware, the price is very high_ "  
Daenerys had to guess that this was where items that were too notorious or expensive went.  
" _Something for yourself, though? I have many things for a beautiful widow like you ..._ "  
"Yes, I am a widow, _widow_ "  
The seller opened his mouth to correct her, but simply shook his head and shooed her out of the way as a rather ornate lady behind Daenerys shouldered her way past her to look at the items for sale. Seven slaves followed the woman, each with their own tattoos and looking down. Daenerys sighed through her nose, but walked away.

As she made her way to the back of the market, she passed by a Red Priestess on her podium, extolling the virtures of R'hllor. Daenerys made sure her hood was secure and her hair was tucked away, no matter how disguised it was. The last thing she needed was the Red Priesthood finding out she was alive and well. She wondered if they still extolled her name in Meereen. She wondered if Meereen missed her at all. She missed it sometimes, but had no wish to go back there. Not now. And perhaps, not ever. She wanted to know news of it, but asking was risky. In this nest of Red Priest, she had to be careful.

Finding the shadow markets, she could see why they were in the back. This was where one could find slaves. She fought again the urge to snap and snarl at the sight of chains, and had to hope that the slaves were down in number. Strangely, she also saw tokens of elephants, and wondered for a moment what they meant. Then, seeing slaves with fly tattoos on their cheeks standing next to a man with a hooked stick, she realised they were elephant sellers. That would be a magnificent gift for Drogon ...  
And then, the stall she was looking for. She had a good remaining lot of gold, but she was tempted by the elephants. Instead, she approached the seller, who immediately saw her as suspicious as she didn't look very wealthy.  
"I am looking for a gift, for my mother-in-law. _Gift, Mother of my husband._ I am a widow, _widow_. She has thrown me out, taken my things. I want to appease her, _please her?_ _Nice?_ "  
The seller chuckled a little, "Sounds like my mine"  
"You speak the Common Tongue?" Daenerys sounded relieved, "I'm sorry, my Volantene is not very good"  
"That's alright, I speak any language for the right coin" He eased himself up off his chair, his belly bumping against the table on which some of his wares sat, "What would you like?"  
"I want something to appease a fierce mother-in-law. She's from Westeros, so I'd like something from there"  
"Really? Where from?"  
Daenerys had to think fast.  
"I think the Westerlands? Or Crownlands? She mentions 'bowl of brown' a lot ..." That Daenerys had learned when listening to Arya fill her brother in on her exploits in King's Landing. She couldn't outright state she wanted something from her own dynasty, and it was tiring dancing around it, "I just want something no-one else will have, something special. Something fit for nobility"  
"Well, I have a few. It will cost ..."  
"More than she already has cost me?" A tired smile, and the man laughed.  
"Well, here ..." He pulled a couple of items from under the table, holding them very firmly in his hands, "I have the Hand of the King pin of Eddard Stark. Taken from his execution"  
It would have been fitting, but she shook her head, "She would never wear that. She told me all about the Starks, what traitors they were. I'd never even heard of them before she had a few cups of wine and started shouting a lot ..."  
"Perhaps a cup from House Tyrell? Very valuable, now that they are gone" He held it up. Daenerys certainly recognised the rose sigil, and part of her pained at the reminder that every single Tyrell had been slaughtered and the House extinct. She took it in, making it appear that this was closer to what she wanted.  
"Wasn't one of them a Queen?"  
"Indeed, sadly she is no more. Something from Queen Cersei, perhaps?"  
The thought of owning something from Cersei was repugnant, but she allowed the show of a struck coin with Cersei's image, and the Lannister Lion behind her. She wasn't much for coins, and shook her head.  
"Something from a Queen would be good, but I think she'd spend it and then get angry she did that"  
"I have a crown from the Queen before Cersei, the last Targaryen Queen"  
"A dragon Queen?" Daenerys perked, "That must be very valuable"  
"Indeed. A touch too expensive for you, I'd think ..."  
"If it means she will allow me back into my home, I will pay. Please ... please may I see it?"  
Reluctantly, the man pulled out the crown. Daenerys almost broke her character entirely ... It was the same one she had seen since she was small, the same one that sold away the last of Viserys' soul. She had to have it. She would give the man anything. Gold. Blood. It didn't matter.  
"It's ... not fancy as I thought it would be" She noted. It was fairly slim, intended to be worn with the half-crescent rising above the fringe like a beautiful sunrise from the ocean of ice-blond Targaryen hair. The metal was platinum, dark and moody from lack of care, and studded with sparkling rubies and fire opals. The centrepiece was a glittering red diamond, that alone was noteworthy. Daenerys was surprised it was still set in, unless the man thought it was simply another ruby. Hopefully his ignorance means a lower price ...  
"It was good enough for a Queen" He pointed out.  
"It would be good enough for her, then. How much?"  
"Out of your price" He started to put it away, but she grabbed his arm. A guard nearby put his hand on his sword, watching.  
"Please" Daenerys' eyes were teary, not a hard act to pull off when she could see her mother's history, her history, in his hands, "I want my home back. I need to appease her. Please, I'll give you everything I have. Here ..." She pulled out the bag from her chest, spilling gold and small jewels across the table, "All of this, take it. I'll give you what I've bought ... please, this is all I have, I just want to go home ..."  
She started to pull out jars of spices, but the man stopped her.  
"Shh, stop, please, do not cry. I am not a man of charity, I do not fall for the pleas of poor women" Daenerys looked up at him with red eyes, "But you are not poor. Not yet, anyway"  
She paused, not sure how to take that. He carefully counted her gold, placing it on scales to value it, and examined the gems carefully. He hummed, thinking about how much it would cost ... After the last Targaryen was murdered in King's Landing, the crown should be worth more, but no-one was asking for relics of a dead dynesty lately. He waved a hand.  
"All of this, and the crown is yours"  
"Yes! Yes, please thank you ... thank you ..." She wiped her eyes, putting the spice jar back in her basket, as the man wrapped the crown in some cheap silk to protect it.  
"I hope that gets your home back"  
"I hope so to. When I do ... I hope you will accept an invitation to supper"  
He laughed, "That would be an honour. And I hope to meet this fierce mother-in-law of yours"  
"Oh, I wouldn't hope that" She laughed, tucking the precious crown back into her chest, and smiled at the man.  
"I hope your business prospers"  
"Safe trip home"  
"And to you"

Daenerys near walked from the market with a spring in her step, her face hurt from smiling so much. The points of the crown pressed against her breastbone, but she didn't care. She was tempted to sing and dance, but instead, she made her way down to the bridge. Though she had claimed that was all she had, she had kept a little back for a boat to Oros. From there, Drogon would take her back to Valyria.  
And she would dine tonight in the most joyous mood one could have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. Again!
> 
> Absolutely winging it here. Helpppp.
> 
> I was trying to find a shore or city Daenerys could land at with good intentions. Most of the cities around the area she had tried to contact in the books for allies against Yunkai, and most were along the lines of 'fuk u lawl'  
> (Elephants were in the DOTD book in Meereen's pyramid, but not the show)


	25. Cracks in the World

Black. Red. Yellow. Stone, glass, fire. Everything swirled around and around the King in his dreams, filling them with smoke and water, until not even the night sky with the smattering of white stars illuminating it could be seen. He could not breathe, he could not swim, not against the dark waters that enveloped him over and over again.  
 _What does it mean_ A raven cried out in his mind, _What does it mean_  
 _I am supposed to know_ was all he could really conclude, _I am the Three-Eyed Raven. I see, I know, I find, I seek, I should have an answer to all_  
 _But you don't_ , The ravens pointed out as they came towards him, claws outstretched and raking at his cold, damp flesh, _You don't, you don't, you don't ..._

Bran opened his eyes, staring up at the black canopy over his bed. The King's chambers had seen many colours over the years, many banners in such a short space of time. For generations, the reds of the Targaryens and the sight of their dragons reigned supreme. Then it was overtaken by the yellows and antlers of the Baratheons, before being smothered in reds and golds of Lannister lions. It should have been covered now with Stark wolves and creams with green borders to represent the coming of Spring, but instead if was dark and gloomy with ravens and steel. The trellis' that sued to line the windows were removed to allow the coming and goings of the carrion birds, the walls stained with dragonfire soot that Bran did not dislike in his honesty. His bed, modified to suit his needs, coated itself in heavy black linen to allow little light to disturb his rest.  
It was an almost morbid place, but he compared it to the caves in which he learned his craft. At times, he missed the twisted roots of the weirwoods, and had asked that a Godswood were to be planted in the gardens of the Keep. Something that broke murmurs of sparrows and septas, but without a Sept to call their own, the religion of the Seven was in a place of turmoil. Cersei had done much to crush the religion that she had tried to use for her own ends but ended up being brutalised by, and Bran was in no hurry to allow it a tight grip on the city. It had been the religion of his mother, but he was in the branches of a religion much older, much more complex, and at times much darker.

Even at this early hour, he could hear work being done within the Keep, and in the streets outside. King's Landing was a place of endless construction, either repairing what was still standing, restoring what had been levelled, and redesigning areas that had been obliterated completely. The city walls were a tricky part, having been blown outward by Drogon, and the carcasses of the Golden Company thrown into the harbour after being looted for their armour. Some had taken the shields as souvenirs. Bran couldn't blame them for taking such a novel symbol, one of seven skulls suspended from around a spear. It made a change from the lions and now the ravens that bedecked their streets.  
And, he supposed, the wolves that headed so many letters from the North. Sansa was too proud to plead for funds, but the reminders of his home and the state it was in were constant and blunt in their messages. The North had just as much, if not more rebuilding to be done. At least White Harbour, the main port, was intact, which was better than how it looked in King's Landing, although Pike's raiding parties were taking potshots at as many ports as they could pass without return fire. He heard that Dorne was looking into trade with the Iron Islands, as they had been on the same side during the War for the Dawn and War for King's Landing, backing the Queen of Dragons in exchange for future independence. With Daenerys gone, and both under the rule of King's Landing once again, neither were in a mood to talk to Bran and content to speak to each other instead. While Ellaria Sand was still dead underneath the Keep and Sunspear in no hurry to reclaim someone who had slaughtered the rightful Prince of Dorne, the Dornish still had a taste for ruling without interference from a place that had seen the death of many Martells over the years. 

He sat up on his bed, looking towards the window and the ravens quietly preening themselves or lightly sleeping from handy roosts. He saw them just as often in his dreams as he did his living days, and he could not decide what it truely meant. He had the power to go anywhere, to see anything, using their flight and their eyes. But three sights eluded him; Arya's current whereabouts, Jon's location beyond the wall, and where Drogon could be resting. Warging a dragon was possible, or at least, nothing said it shouldn't be. But many warned him that dragons were clever and fierce, and their mind wouldn't be taken so easily. He had tried during the Battle of Winterfell, to take Viserion's mind and sight if nothing else, but the dead dragon's rotting brains were no use. Drogon's mind was protected by what felt like white-hot fire, and Rhaegal's mind similarly did not allow entry. But even warging Ghost, which was something well within his power, proved difficult. Perhaps the Wall had changed properties that he did not account for.  
Perhaps.

The door to his bedroom opened softly, a pair of eyes peering in cautiously before looking away, whispering to someone over their shoulder. Maids and guards often checked the King during the night, making sure he was safe. Regicide was as common as the bloody flux these days, and it paid to make sure that yet another monarch hadn't been murdered in the night. Seeing him awake, maids made their way in, tidying the room and preparing the King's path for his morning routine.  
By the time the sun had fully committed to climbing high in the sky, he was already sitting down for breakfast, though it was light with food. He needed to eat, like all mortal men, but his appetite was limited. Especially with the shortage of food due to war ...  
Tyrion had chosen to eat with him this morning, something that mildly bemused the King but he silently allowed anyway. Tyrion was chewing on a piece of well-charred bacon slowly, waiting for Bran to take a bite of his own food. It was often pointless to start a conversation with him; small talk didn't suit the stoic Stark, and he was above hearing courtly gossip of what few Courtiers there were. There was always the possibility of the business of the land, but he was never sure if Bran really wanted to talk about that over breakfast. Some people did not like to discuss work over their porridge.  
The last Lannister took a chance. He cleared his throat, and Bran looked at him expectantly.   
"Queen Sansa has mentioned that she hopes you will visit the North soon. To see how Winterfell's building works are doing"  
"I can see Winterfell clearly, Everything appears to be going well"  
"Yes, well ... she would still love to see you, have a talk, just catch up"  
"Perhaps in the future. I am satisfied with her reports sent by the ravens"  
Tyrion wasn't sure if the King was deliberately avoiding what Sansa was asking.  
"Master Samwell mentioned that a new council the Most Devout has been formed out of what is left of the Septries. Normally not done, but ... the circumstances are rather extraordinary. Once they are finished completing their balloting of a new High Septon, they are hoping to speak to you regarding rebuilding the Sept of Baelor"  
Bran was silent. Tyrion moved onwards with caution.  
"While I have no doubt that the Faith has been a thorn in the side of ... less cautious rulers, it is still a faith of the people. You would be wise to allow them rebuilting a Great Sept, even one of smaller scale, to prevent another religious war. The people are mostly silent about your choice of Gods-"  
"Being the Three-Eyed Raven was not a choice, my Lord. It is my duty"  
It was Tyrion's turn to ignore the words being spoken to him.  
"As such, it would be prudent to allow worship of the Seven in a place that has a longer history with it than the Gods of the North"  
"Tell them they may rebuilt the Sept as they wish" Bran's words were careful and slow, "But it must be humble, it must be open to all, and they will be silent when a weirwood is planted in the Red Keep"  
Tyrion didn't think that would be too great a demand. The Faith was still mostly ignorant about the true depth of Bran's Greensight, so he would be safe for now. Especially if the weirwood was seen just as a simple shrine-like object, rather than a powerful vessel of magic.   
"There are searches still ongoing for a Weirwood sapling suitable for the weather of the Crownlands. Most Houses report either scouting no weirwoods, of finding long-growing ones that would die if uprooted. A couple of places in the Riverlands look promising, but your uncle Lord Edmure has noted that the rivers are growing deep and fast, as of late. It seems that the snow and ice from the Night King is swelling the waters. A couple of saplings have started to rot already"  
"Keep the search. There is a tree suitable that can be found, I am sure of it"  
"Yes, your Grace ..."

-

"How long has it been like this?"   
Sansa was standing in a field, or what was left of it, with water gently lapping at her ankles. The drop that should have been growing was now swimming under a layer of floodwater, much to her bemusement and the farmer's anguish.  
"We saw the first flow a couple of days ago. We just assumed it was a wash from an overflowing river. But the water would not stop ... we tried everything to move it away. It's destroyed everything, it's gone. We'll be lucky if one or two plants are alive ..."  
"And this isn't the only field?"  
"All fields are like this. And all my kinfolk around us, all our farms are the same. We were glad of the snow being gone, we got to work digging and planting. And just a few months later, it's gone"  
Sansa looked around her, seeing farms for as far as the horizon. The bleak day made the muddied fields seem darker, more forboding, as other farmers looked at the damage caused by the water. This was a handful of farms, but if the damage was wider ...  
"I will have spare crops delivered, you will not go hungry. Do what you can to fix the waters, and I will send men to fortify the banks of the rivers"  
"Thank you" The man could have wept, "Thank you .... your Grace ..."  
As Sansa walked back to her horse, he brow furrowed in worry and mild anger at the man's pain, she addressed one of her advisors.  
"Have the rivers been assessed?"  
"Yes, your Grace, most have been looked at, with a few more still to be done"  
"And?"  
"The waters are very high, we assume because of the melting snow. It is coming from Beyond the Wall, as well as from our own hills and plains. We have snowmelt before, but the added snow from the Battle for the Dawn just adds to it all"  
"Leave rebuilding Winterfell for now. Send all the men to fortify the rivers, redirect them if needed. If the people cannot grow and eat, then the North is doomed"  
"Yes, your Grace ..."

-

"This was from my mother"  
Daenerys sat in her favourite place, in the nest of Drogon with her small daughter on her lap and her colossal son at her side. She pulled the precious crown from her breast, unwrapping it from its silk cocoon delicately. Missanderys squeaked in curiosity, pulling at the silk with impatience to see what was inside to see if it was food. Disappointed it wasn't, although she touched the dull platinum frame with her tiny teeth to test it anyway, she looked to her mother for an explanation.  
"This was one of the last things we had of her. I don't remember her ... she died giving birth to me, during a great storm on Dragonstone" Daenerys polished the crown with the silk, trying to take some of the neglect off of it, "But Viserys used to tell me about her. How kind she was, gentle. She was sad a lot, but quietly fierce. He cried and cried and cried when she died, when we had to leave Dragonstone before the Usurper's armies could get us. When we grew so poor we had to sell everything we had ... this was one thing he didn't want to sell. He said 'I would rather die'. But we were starving, no-one would take us, as babies from a dead dynasty. He was so angry, it destroyed him to see it go. He couldn't even hold the money he got, the few gold coins given to us. He used to scream and break things, it scared me terribly ..."

She shook her head, wanting rid of her memories of the bad times. She held the crown up to the light of the sun, watching the rubies and red diamond sparkle like pure spring water on a hot summer's day.  
"He used to put this on my head. 'You might be Queen someday, my Queen". I didn't know at the time he meant that he would marry me if he couldn't have a bride that would give him power. I thought he meant we would be brother-and-sister King and Queen. Not ... husband and wife. I'm glad that never happened. If it did ..." She looked around at Drogon, smiling, "I wouldn't have married Khal Drogo, and I wouldn't have been given you as a bride gift"  
Drogon rumbled. He did not have memories of his time in his egg. He remembered his hatching, of seeing a woman bathed in fire and looking at him with eyes of wonder, slim hands picking him out of the rock-hard shell he had been imprisoned in for hundreds of years, and bringing him to her face. His orange eyes staring into hers, marking them as mother and son forever.  
Daenerys placed the crown upon his brow, giggling at the sight of such a massive beast wearing such a small piece of jewellery.  
"I don't think it quite suits you ... a little too small, maybe"   
He trilled his amusement, frills raising slightly as Daenerys moved it to hold it on Missanderys' brow. Although she was growing by the day, she was still a very small dragon, and it would be some time before it even remotely fit her.  
"Too big ... Though one day it might be the right size"   
Missanderys looked up at the crown, still wanting to see if it were edible if she willed it just a little more. Her mother thought it wise to take it away, and she placed it upon her own head.

In moments like this, Daenerys felt the weight of her heritage sitting upon her heart. Sitting in Old Valyria, with dragons by her side, wearing her mother's own crown ... Thousands of years of Valyrian and Targaryen history sang through her soul, and she closed her eyes to listen to the chorus thrumming in her body. A tear rolled down her cheek as she realised that she, and she alone, was the last true Dragon Queen.   
Missanderys watched her mother, seeing the tears upon her face. She climbed up the front of Daenerys' tunic, latching on with the claws on her wings, and pushed her head under Daenerys' chin, high-pitched chirps to try and cheer her up. Drogon pressed his jaw against his mother's hip, reminding her that he was there as well, imitating Missandery's sounds in turn.  
She uttered a soft laugh, wiping away her tears as they brought her back to the present.  
"Sometimes you look back too much ... " _If I look back, I am lost_ , "But good people bring you back. Good children"  
She paused, stroking Missanderys' back as the dragon curled into her, and she looked over to the braizer.  
"Taht means I must look after all my children, and their future. Drogon, I love you, I love you more than life itself. But If you wish to be free, then you should be free. _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor_ "  
Oh, Drogon knew those words very well. His lips peeled back from his teeth, uncertain if his mother was trying to send him away.  
"You have provided for me. You have hunted for me when I was weak. You took care of me when I was gone. You gave me the gift of life. And for that, I will always be in your debt. I must provide for myself, I must let you roam as much as you wish, without you worrying where I am and if I can eat. If I can feed Missanderys until she hunts by herself. And with seven mouths that may come ..."  
"A Queen cannot live by others alone. She must be able to sustain herself. But first, I must give you meat for all you have given me. Drogon, I will go into Valyeria again, and I will gather more gold. And I will give you a feast fit for Kings ..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got an idea that persistently won't go away.   
> Should I have perhaps made Missanderys a regular human baby instead of a dragon? Perhaps, but I was still enchanted by the idea of Daenerys literally laying an egg that I couldn't help it.
> 
> I want to still say thank you to everyone who has commented, who has left Kudos, who has bookmarked. You have made my day, you keep me smiling in bleaker times, and I do it all for you.
> 
> Daenerys Targaryen is my Queen, now and for forever, no matter what S8 did to her.


	26. A Feast for Dragons

A woman travelling alone on a ship was a dangerous thing. A woman with money, even more so. 

One with a mighty bounty on her head, should it be found she wasn't truly dead ... She could only guess what her living flesh would merit the right person to buy it. 

She could have asked for an Unsullied to come with her, but she did not want them to be endangered. She had risked quite a lot on her first trip to Volantis, a second with more wealthy was riskier. Still, she had set up the story of wanting to win back her deceased husband's fortune from his greedy mother-in-law, and she felt that such a story would still serve her well. Taking care to once again cover her blonde hair with ash and mud to render it dark brown, and covering her hair with the cheap silk the merchant had wrapped her mother's crown in, she waited for a carriage to take her to the markets of Volantis. Such a walk would be too much, despite her much more comfortable footwear, and she couldn't risk Drogon being seen with her.  
It amused her, in a way. Viserys had been called the 'Begger King' due to his poverty and claims to the Westerosi crown. She travelled like a Begger Queen to barter for meat for her children. Having seen the elephants in the marketplace the last time, she wasted not a moment before heading straight for the stall. It looked like a good day to buy, with the market slow in the humid and draining afternoon heat. Slaves with fly markings and another symbol she did not recognise tattooed upon their cheek wilted in the shade, stinking in their misery, and their owner fanned himself with a palm leaf.  
" _Hello_ " She greeted the owner. He looked her up and down, taking in her appearance, perhaps he remembered the sight of her from her last visit, passing his stall on her way to see the jewellery seller, " _I want elephant. Buy many_ "  
" _You want to buy elephants?_ " He answered in a more fluent tongue. It truly was grating on her that she couldn't simply speak as a native speaker, but she had a story to upkeep, " _They are expensive_ "  
" _Gold_ " She proclaimed, holding up a bag she had tied to her waist, " _Many. Want elephants. Gifts. For me. Want elephant, always. Husband said maybe. Ten moons, I give, for you. Your own. He is dead. I am widow. I want one. And more. And more. Many. Mother of husband take my home? My marriage home? Fine. I buy elephants. She want? She cannot take. Can try. I will laugh_ "  
The merchant took a moment to understand what she was saying, and let out a laugh, showing a few teeth blackened by too many sweet figs in fine Volantine wine. That was certainly a good story for him, and if she had the gold, who was he to ask questions.  
" _How many do you want?_ "  
" _Many, as much as gold I have_ "  
" _Do you want a hathay?_ "  
She frowned, " _Hathay?_ "  
" _Yes. This_ " He pointed over her shoulder to his own carriage, a rather small elephant sitting in the dust to escape the high heat. That would attract attention, and she shook her head, causing him to raise an eyebrow.  
" _I do not have a slave to drive, she has taken all of my servants _" She quickly made an excuse. Oh, how she wished she could simply take them and drive them herself somewhere where Drogon could have them whenever he wanted. The price for such a luxurious meal for her son was high in nerves and quick thinking.  
" _I'm sure I can loan one for someone planning to spend a lot of gold ..._ "  
Perhaps, but witnesses were also something Daenerys didn't need.  
" _I need ship. Go to island. Brother promise, will take me to new home. Safe_ "  
" _Your brother couldn't come to the market with you?_ "  
She shook her head, " _Very busy, will send men to island, does not want to come to Volantis. Too far_ "  
" _Not a lot of support for such a beautiful woman_ " The man mused, standing up, " _Fine, let me see how much gold you have_ "  
" _I will need ship too_ " She pointed out, before pulling a hidden sack of gold from her chest. The man seemed to appreciate how clever she had been in keeping it not at her waist where anyone could take it. Pouring the gold coins down, he frowned on seeing that they were not marked Volantene currency, but gold still had a price.  
" _Five elephants, for this price_ "  
" _Only five?_ " She sounded disappointed.  
" _Five if you want your ship_ "  
"... _Five, and a small one. Want hathay, when I am home with brother_ "  
This amused him, and he nodded, sweeping the gold into a dark container secreted within his stall, and bellowed instructions to the slaves, who snapped to attention and grabbed their driving sticks to get the animals.__

__-_ _

__The last time she was on a ship, she was making love to Jon. That thought didn't escape her as she listened to the seagulls yodel overhead, watched the sea waves lap gently against the side of the boat, before it started to rock harshly with the elephants being loaded on.  
Asking for a ship strong enough to carry six elephants was a hard task, and two different ships were actually needed. Staffed with a skeletal crew, she was relieved she had just enough gold and no more to complete the trip, giving some jewellery she had found in the ruins of Valyria to sweeten the deal and make up for the change of itinerary. Finally, they were ready to set sail.  
" _Where do you want to go?_ " The Captain approached Daenerys. He had with him a map of Essos, and it was well-worn with markings and stained with wine and dirt, rough from salt-water and heated arguments about the best sailing routes.  
She looked at it, tracing Volantis and seemingly muttering something under her breath. Really, her eyes were on the ruins of Old Valyria, and she had to choose an island that was close enough to it, yet far enough to keep the elephants and Drogon out of common sight.  
Her first choice would be an island in the Smoking Sea, somewhere close to the main parts of Valyria, but distant enough. But she knew that no sailor would dare go near, and many men had been swallowed by the cursed waters. Instead, she looked closer to the mainland, and spotted two unnamed islands across from the Sea of Sighs.  
" _Here?_ "  
The man looked at the island, and rose a brow at her.  
" _The big one has monsters, the little has nothing_ "  
" _Then safe_ " She seemed triumphant, " _I will wait there_ "_ _

__By the time they made it to the island, and the elephants had been unloaded, the Captain of the ship had his doubts. Seeing the woman dressed in humble clothing, standing with six lost-looking elephants on a featureless island without a dock or friendly faces, the more he gained the idea that perhaps ... perhaps this woman's brother, who had been too lazy to come to Volantis to aid her, was secretly putting her somewhere without aid so she could be forgotten, with the elephants to amuse and distract her ...  
Daenerys didn't seem to note his concern. She was just happy she made it, and waved the ships goodbye as she stood on the shore with the hooked pole they had given her to control the beasts. The moment they crossed the horizon, she broke the pole over her thigh, and threw it into the sea.  
"I will not control you with this" She turned and addressed the elephants, "You are free to live here until my son arrives. I'm afraid I haven't purchased you for what I said I had; you are to be his meals, my gift to him"  
The elephants couldn't understand her, and she didn't expect them to. What they DID understand, however, was the shadow of Drogon passing over them, the sound of his roar as he swooped down, and the feel of his claws sinking into the nearest elephant that hadn't managed to stampede out of his way.   
As the rest of the herd disappeared in a cloud of panicked dust to the sound of their own trumpeted cries of fear, Daenerys approached Drogon with a smile on her face as he sank his teeth into the elephant's neck, silencing its screams.  
"It's a lot of meat" She noted, as Drogon inspected his new meal, "I hope you like it. I can't hunt like you, but I can buy so you don't have to look for meals where people might hunt you, at least for a little bit"  
Drogon growled, licking the blood off his lips to show his appreciation. Impatient, he allowed Daenerys onto his back and took off the moment he felt her grip the spines on his back. The elephant was far heavier prey than he was used to, but the meal was too good to not try. As soon as they landed in his nest, Missanderys came running out from her hiding place under the canopy Daenerys had set up to be her own tent, before simply bedding in Drogon's nest out of comfort and habit. Excited, she ran up her mother's leg, barking at the sight of the dead elephant as Drogon looked over the animal with curiosity. He had seen elephants only in passing on his flights, and hadn't taken one down before. This would be a good meal, one that would said him for quite some time, and would feed his mother and little sister to make it better._ _

__Daenerys made her way to the brazier, checking on the precious eggs that still lay dormant on their bed of bracken and ashes. Running her fingers over the surface of the eggs, she had a sudden thought. They seemed ... dry. Well, dryer than they should be. She didn't want to give them water, she wanted to give them something more potent.  
Taking a golden bowl and silver knife salvaged from the ruins, she approached the elephant. Drogon watched her with careful eyes, Missanderys perching on her shoulder as she cut into the elephant's neck, letting thickened blood pour from the artery and into the bowl until it trickled over the rim. It was a fair amount, and she was able to coat all seven of the eggs in a lavish lacquer as Missanderys leaned down to sniff at the eggs.  
"Drogon" She turned to the great, black dragon, " _Dracarys_ "  
Bemused, but obeying his mother, he unleashed a thin torrent of fire from his throat, setting the blood and bracken alight. Missanderys coughed a few of her own plumes of flame into the mix, her claws digging into Daenerys' skin in excitement. Drogon used the rest of his fire to cook his elephant, ripping off large chunks of scorched flesh and swallowing them whole whilst using his foot to keep the corpse still.  
Daenerys would join him in a moment. She watched the eggs carefully as the fire died down, the stench of burned blood thick in the air. The heat was enough to singe the very breath from her lungs, but she was a Targaryen. _Fire cannot kill a dragon_._ _

__After a few moments, an egg at the centre of the clutch twitched, and a crack slowly spread across the surface ..._ _

__-_ _

__Tyrion was, yet again, reading the many scrolls that came to him via the endless stream of ravens when he felt the ripples. Scrolls, quills and inkwells danced, his wine sloshed in its goblet, and the decanter rattled on the sideboard. Bemused, he watched his wine encricle the sides of the lion-embossed goblet, before the sound almost threw him out of his chair.  
The sound of a catastrophic explosion rocked the remaining structure of the Red Keep, sending Tyrion to the floor on pure instinct as he shielded his head from any potential falling debris. His heart in his throat, he quickly crawled under the table, waiting for something to happen. The sound of the explosion echoed, but it didn't seem as though the Red Keep was under attack. _ _

__Was it another cache of wildfire that had been found and triggered by accident? Were the madmen in the Guild of Alchemists up to something more sinister? Trying to listen above the sounds of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, he cautiously stood up from under the table, hearing the panicked scramblings of the Kingsguard as they rushed to both protect the King, and find out what was happening._ _

__-  
"Hey, hey Captain?"  
"What"  
"Do ... Do you see what I see?"  
By the harbour, most men were trying to get their hearing back, unable to understand what had happened. A couple of men seemed to know something was wrong, and were taking their ships to sea before even taking most of their men or cargo back.   
That was probably wise, considering the waters in the harbour were suddenly drawing back.  
The Captain of the _Blackwings_ looked over to see what his men were watching, and indeed, it looked as though all the ships in the harbour were lowering themselves rather quickly.  
"It's not tide, is it? It's too early for that" The water dipped further, revealing surprised fish, midden rubbish, lumps of shit and the mud below. There was nothing either could much do, and the next few hours were spent trying to make sure their ship was correct when the waters finally came back._ _

__Just as everything seemed calm, a scream sounded by another part of the Harbor. Both men watched, shocked and still, as a wall of water came rushing from Blackwater Bay, and barrelled down upon everyone and everything standing in it's way ..._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A son has got to eat, after all.
> 
> There are a lot of islands in GOT that simply don't have a name, which is frustrating. I've tried many different sources to find a name for this pair of islands, found nothing, but just Made Shit Up to justify getting the elephants there.


	27. Treacherous Tides

The chatter of the smallfolk, the bellows of sailors, the sounds of keening seagulls and lapping waves ... all were taken away by the sounds of screams, of smoke and devastation, and of the city guard trying their best to stop people going to the river to retrieve their property and their dead. After the first wall of water hit and retreated, many fell into the trap of assuming that it was over, only to be swept away by the next wave in the line. The nautical assault finally subsided after a couple of hours, and the Mud Gate was no more.

Tyrion Lannister looked out the window of the Red Keep, seeing a tideline of driftwood and crushed ships atop the rocks of Aegon's High Hill - on which the Keep was built - showing how high the waters had risen.   
He shuddered to think how it would have been had the Keep not been perched so high.  
"Have the waters stopped?" Archmaester Tarly's eyes were wide, unable to compehend the devestation being reported to him and the Hand of the King. Even from this high, they could hear screaming and crying, and the word from the city guard spoke of so many dead floating in the Bay that many thought back to the Battle of the Blackwater.  
"It would appear so" Tyrion had been keeping count of the waters, each wave slightly smaller than the last, until it had reached a flood that neither rose nor fell.   
"And the ships?" Ser Davos asked the natural question, to which Samwell Tarly shook his head.  
"The Guards say no ship is left seaworthy in the harbour. It's all gone"  
"The Mud Gate is gone. Everything from the Keep to the King's Gate is gone, either flooded or crushed by the waves" The men looked at the map on the table, hurridly summoned to try and assess the damage, "We've lost the entire Harbour. Countless scores dead. Trade will be finished"  
"... So what do we do?" Samwell broached the obvious question, to which Tyrion gave the obvious answer.  
"We must evacuate"  
"Evacuate? Only the riverside of the city is damaged-"  
"No, it isn't" Tyrion looked at the man from under his heavy brow, "You forget the Iron Gate and the areas that face Blackwater Bay. We are focusing on the Harbour, but do you think they would really be unscathed? We have been assaulted by water on two sides; just because the devastation is more obvious in the river does not mean there will not be casualties on the other side"  
Samwell fell silent. They hadn't moved after the Battle of King's Landing, despite the extensive damaged caused by Drogon's fires. Would the city finally have to move from water, where fire had failed?  
"Water brings sickness. I should know; I know the sewer lines here, and it is not a good thing when the water rises back out of a chamberpot. We must move, we must take the King and go elsewhere to avoid a catastrophic sickness"  
"Do you think the people will go?" Davos brought up the obvious question.  
"They must"  
"But _will they_. People won't want to leave their only things behind, their homes. They'll stay, even if it means dying"  
"Then we must summon the armies to make them evacuate"  
"You will face riots"  
"We faced worse"  
"Where will we go to?"  
Tyrion sighed out of his nose, looking at a larger map of Westeros overall, searching for a place where people could go.  
"The obvious choice would be Storm's End, the closest stronghold. Lord Baratheon may be reluctant to welcome the King, but he will surely welcome the smallfolk, his own people"  
"Shipwreaker Bay is not a good place for trade" Davos pointed out, "Lannisport would be better, on the other side of Westeros, away from whatever caused this flood"  
"..." Tyrion couldn't really argue the point. He had to see that it was the best, but would the people welcome refugees from the other side of the continent, and moreover, would the people travel that far?  
"... Lannisport it is. I will send word to Casterly Rock to prepare for the King's arrival ..."

-

As the nest of the dragons of Westeros smoked in their ruins, the nest of their ancestral homeland was seeing the birth of life long delayed by the Doom.  
Daeenrys sat next to the braizer, her breath almost held in anticipation as the cracks across the eggs grew wider and deeper. Sometimes there would be a twitch, a bubble of amniotic fluid boiling to the surface, but all was still quiet as the little dragons rested and fought alternatively.   
Missanderys was restless on her lap, squealing and impatient to inspect the newborns once they came out. It was almost hard to believe that she was seeing the third round of dragons hatching, that not so long ago she was welcoming Missanderys into the world. The little silver dragon climbed up her mother's tunic, taking a spot on her shoulder to watch the eggs and bark out encouragement.  
"They will come in their own time" Daenerys tried to relax her daughter, scratching along her jaw to soothe her, "You took your time in your egg, we must be patient"  
Missanderys cooed into the touch, and settled down a little. Drogon, for his part, was simply sleeping off his elephant supper in his own nest. He took this in his stride, and Daenerys hoped he would be patient with seven more mouths to feed. 

One by one, little faces emerged. Gold, bronze, dark silver, with one left to hatch. One by one, taking in their first breaths of air, resting for a moment in their eggs before breaking out further, spilling out onto the warm coals and croaking into the cool night sky. Under the stars and lucious moon, Daenerys watched her little dragons huddle together, welcoming each other out of their hundred year prison.   
Missanderys was beside herself with excitement, returning the hatchling's calls with her own. Even at her young age, she was noticably bigger than these newborns, and she climbed up the braizer to see the new arrives for herself.  
The hatchlings were wary of this larger, older pale silver whelp descending on them, grooming the egg off their scales and welcoming them as an older sister. Daenerys did wonder if older dragons ate the younger; it was mentioned before, and it was something she had worried about with Drogon and Missanderys. Missanderys didn't seem interested in eating these dragons; she seemed to think they were playmates, and even pulled the tail of one to try and entice it to play.

"Missanderys, later, they're just babies" Daenerys reached over and touched her daughter's back, getting a muttered grumble in return as she settled down. The hatchlings all looked towards Daenerys, six sets of eyes peering at her through the gloom and the glow of the coals underneath their feet. They seemed unsure of her, which she couldn't fault them for, but soon they were making contact sounds to her, gravitating to her as the biggest animal in their vision and seemingly understanding that she was there to take care of them.  
"You're all so sweet" Daenerys smiled, petting each of their heads in turn. Some accepted the touch gratefully, others were more shy, and one even playfully nipped her fingers. She giggled at this, scooping the babies one by one and placing them on her lap, where they curled around each other for warmth and comfort.  
The final egg, a large red one, still hadn't fully hatched. Daenerys could see tiny nostrils peeking out, but no movement in quite a few minutes. Missanderys circled the egg, scratching it with the claw on the end of her wing, chirruping to encourage the hatchling inside to come out.  
"..." After a small wait and still no movement, Daenerys took matters into her own hands. She brought the egg towards her, carefully breaking away pieces with her thumbs, trying not to hurt the infant inside. Eventually, a dark crimson dragon spilled out across the coals, gasping against the night.  
"Oh, no ..." Daenerys picked it up, bringing it to her chest as Missanderys barked in alarm, the other hatchlings writhing on Daenerys' lap as they all scrambled to see what was going on, "Oh no, come on little one, you're free ..."  
Putting her ear on the little dragon's back, she could hear her breathing was laboured, almost watery, and knew she had to help. Rubbing the little one's back, tipping it downward to let the waters flow from it's mouth, Daenerys silently pleaded for the little dragon's life. She had not lost a hatchling, she was greedy for all of them to live, and she would make sure she would do everything in her power to grand this little one life.  
She stopped, watching, waiting at the limp hatchling's movements. At first it was still, heartbreakingly still ... but then a twitch, her tail lashing and wrapping around Daenerys' wrist. Then she took a sharp breath, coughing as she expelled a large, thick glob of slimy albumen and screeched at the effort. Blinking back tears of sheer relief, Daenerys let the little one get it's breathing under control, before bringing her to her face and looking at her closely, comforting with soothing words and stroking her back.

Drogon had slept through most of the hatching, but woke up to see what the commotion was all about, feeling his mother's anxiety over the red hatchling. Lumbering over, he looked down at the writhing ball of hatchlings on his mother's lap, the exhausted red hatchling in her hands, and the over-excited Missanderys hopping up and down on the braizer's coals.  
"Seven dragons" Daenerys looked up at her son, smiling, "Seven little dragons ... More dragons for you, more dragons for the world. I will care of them, as I cared for you and your brothers. And then ... they shall be free. As free as you and Missanderys wish to be. A dragon is not a slave. The sky will be yours, it will be theirs ... "  
Drogon uttered a low grumble, the six hatchlings on Daenerys' lap staring up at Drogon in silent awe and a touch of fear, this gigantic black dragon instilling a mix of terror and wonder in even such small eyes. Daenerys looked at each in turn, each seemingly taking on their own personalities as quickly as her sons had.   
"I will need to give you names. Even wild dragons need names ... so men will talk of you, will know you, will write about you in books for worlds to come. Seven names ..."

A tradition had been set with Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion. Each was named after someone significant in her life, who had taught her, who had inspired her, or who had given her lessons. Missanderys was named after her dear friend, cruelly slaughtered by the Cruel Queen Cersei. And these hatchlings?  
"I will name you, after my time in the Dothraki sea. After the handmaidens and bloodriders who provided and cared for me, as I will provide and cared for you. Irrera, after Irri, who taught me Dothraki customs, and whose hands were burned by Drogon's egg. She died when men stole my children, so her name will live in you. Jhiqulla, after Jhiqui, who knew much and taught me well. Doreana, after Doreah. She taught me how to ride a stallion, but sold her oaths for the promises of Qartheen gold and glamour. You will wear the gold that she never will, and your mouth will be more true. Aggolyx, after Aggo, who rode off to find help at my request, but I never saw again. You will fly as far as you wish, for your own pleasure, and you can return whenever you wish. Jhogorr, after Jhogo, who found me Qarth and protected me as much as he could inside their treacherous walls. Rakharyn, after Rakharo, my loyal protector who was brave enough to lash the awoken dragon and made sure his pride knew it"

Each hatchling took their name, but did not know the true meaning yet. It would take time for them to know and respond to it as sure as any man. That left the red hatchling in Daenerys' hands, and she pondered a suitable name for the little warrior.  
"... You, you shall be called Rhaella. After the one who brought me into this world, as I have brought you. Who fought against the storm and brought life. You fly with the colours of House Targaryen, and you will fly under the name of the last ruling Targaryen Queen ..."

Under the starry sky, Daenerys rejoiced at the birth of seven dragons, in pelts of gold and bronze and silver with a single red, as her son and daughter looked over their newest family members, and the world grew ever hotter with the arrival of a new generation of dragons ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have spent far too much time looking up tsunamis and not understanding very much (other than the fact they are terrifying). The mathematics will be completely off, and without detailed calculations I am completely winging the devastation and oceanography of how the explosion would generate tsunamis, especially as it hits King's Landing, but I am assuming that going up the river towards the Mud Gate would be incredibly bad and amplify the waves further.  
> NOTE: Kovarro is named Jhogo here for personal reasons, just in case there's a mix-up in the Bloodrider names.

**Author's Note:**

> While I know Drogon would not have as many complex feelings as presented here, it's a beginner taster overall.


End file.
